Chapter 5

WHY NOT LOTTIE?

It was all over. The neighborhood had paid due honor to Godfrey Thorne. Old Garnett, who was kept at home by his gout, had written a letter of condolence to Mrs. Middleton, and expressed his deep regret at his enforced absence. She was pleased with the letter. She did not care for Dick Garnett, but he had known her brother all his life. She would not have been so pleased, perhaps, had she seen old Dick grinning and showing his fierce old teeth as he wrote it: "Ought to have been there--believe I was his best man fifty years ago. But half a century takes the shine out of most things--and people too." He shrugged his shoulders, eyed the last sentence he had written, and perceiving a little space at the end of a line, put in an adjective to make it rather warmer. "Won't show," he said to himself--"looks very natural. Lord! what a farce it all is! Fifty years ago there was Thorne, like a fool, worshipping the very ground Fanny Harvey trod on, and a few years later he wasn't particularly sorry to put her safe underneath it. Wonderful coal-scuttle of a bonnet she wore that wedding-day, to be sure! And I was best man!" Dick chuckled at the thought. "I shouldn't look much like best man now. Ah, well! I mayn't be best, but I'm a better man than old Godfrey to-day, anyhow." (And so, no doubt, for this world's affairs, Richard Garnett was, on the principle that "a living dog is better than a dead lion.") "And the candlemaker's daughter begins her reign, for that poor lad will never marry. Upon my word, I believe I'm a better man than Master Horace now. And I'm not likely to play the fool with physic-bottles, either: I know a little better than _that_." No, Aunt Harriet would not have liked Garnett's train of thought as he folded and addressed the letter which pleased her. And yet the old fellow meant the best he could.

And now it was all over, and Brackenhill would know Godfrey Thorne no more. But for that one day he was still all-powerful, for they had met to hear his will read.

Horace sat by the table with an angry line between his brows, and balanced a paper-knife on his finger. He tried to appear composed, but a shiver of impatience ran through him more than once, and the color came and went on his cheek. His mother was by his side, controlling her face to a rigidly funereal expression. But the effort was evident.

Godfrey Hammond said to himself, "Those two expect the worst. And if the worst comes, if Percival is mistaken and Horace is cut off with just a pittance, we shall see what Hunting Harry's temper really is. We may have an unpleasant quarter of an hour, but it will give us a vivid idea of the end of the millennium, I fancy."

Aunt Harriet was unfeignedly troubled and anxious.

Percival was rather in the background. Sitting on one chair, he laid his folded arms on the back of another and rested his chin on his wrists. In this attitude he gazed at Hardwicke with the utter calm of an Assyrian statue. He felt his pulses throbbing, and it seemed to him as if his anxiety must betray itself. But it did not. If you have a little self-restraint and presence of mind you can affect to have much. Percival had that little.

Just before Hardwicke began to read Mrs. James leant toward her son and whispered with an air of mystery. He answered with a short and sullen nod.

Hardwicke read clearly but monotonously. The will was dated four days after Alfred Thorne's death--not only before Percival came to Brackenhill, but before any overtures had been made to him. Mrs. Middleton came first with a legacy of ten thousand pounds and a few things which the dead man knew she prized--their mother's portrait and one or two memorials of himself. Sissy had five thousand pounds and a small portion of the family jewels, which were very splendid. His godson, Godfrey Hammond, had three pictures and a ring, all of considerable value, and two or three other things, which, though of less importance, had been looked upon as heirlooms by successive generations of Thornes. Hammond perfectly understood the wilful pride and remorseful pangs with which that bequest was made.

Then came small legacies to old friends. Duncan the butler and one or two of the elder servants had annuities, and the others were not forgotten. Two local charitable institutions had a hundred pounds each. By this time Horace was white to his very lips and drawing his breath painfully. Percival preserved an appearance of calm, but he could feel his strong, irregular heart-throbs as he leant against the chair.

The lawyer went on to read the words which gave Brackenhill to Horace for his life. If he died and left no son to inherit the estate, it was to go to Percival Thorne. But unless Horace died first, and died childless, Percival would not take sixpence under his grandfather's will.

It was a heavy blow, and his lips and hands tightened a little as he met it. He had known that the great prize was for his cousin, but he had fancied that there might be some trifling legacy for him. He would have been more thankful than words could say for half the annuity which was left to the butler. The remembrance of that paper which but for him would have been all powerful rose vividly before his eyes. Did he repent now that he was certain of the greatness of the sacrifice? Again from the bottom of his heart he answered, No. But even while Hardwicke read the words which doomed him to beggary it almost seemed to young Thorne as if the wrinkled waxen face and shrunken figure must suddenly become visible in the background to protest--as if a dead hand must be laid on that lying will which was itself more dead than the newly-buried corpse. Even in that bitter moment Percival was sorry for the poor old squire.

Hardwicke finished, and thought it all very well. He did not pity the young fellow opposite him who had listened so intently and now was looking thoughtfully into space. The lawyer summed up Percival's position in his own mind thus:

He had an income of his own, amount unknown, but as during Alfred Thorne's life it had sufficed for both, it must be more than enough to support the son.

He was engaged to Sissy Langton. Her father had left her at least eight hundred pounds a year, besides which there were all the accumulations of a long minority and this legacy. Mr. Hardwicke thought that the united incomes would be more than fifteen hundred pounds a year.

There were expectations too. Mrs. Middleton was rich, and though some of her property would revert to her husband's family, Hardwicke knew that she had saved a considerable sum. He had no doubt that those savings and her brother's ten thousand pounds would go to Sissy, and consequently to Percival.

And lastly he looked at the new owner of Brackenhill. No, Mr. Hardwicke did not pity Mr. Percival Thorne.

All these thoughts had flashed through his mind as he folded the paper and laid it down. Mrs. Middleton broke the silence. "But Percival--" she exclaimed in utter bewilderment: "I don't understand. What does Percival have?"

"Nothing," said the young man quickly, lifting his head and facing her with a brave smile.

"Nothing? It isn't possible! It isn't right!"

"That will was made before ever I came here. It doesn't mean any unkindness to me, for he didn't know me."

"But did he never make another?--Horace!--Oh, Mr. Hardwicke, _you_ know Godfrey never meant this! That was what his letter was about, then?"

"He intended to make some change, no doubt," said Hardwicke.

"Perhaps Mr. Percival Thorne would like to dispute the will." It was evident that Mrs. James perfectly comprehended the position. Aunt Harriet looked helplessly at her boy, unable to understand his silence.

Horace, though unconscious of the glance, rose suddenly to his feet. "I want to understand," he began in a high thin voice--an unnatural voice--which all at once grew hoarse.

"Yes--what?" said Hardwicke, looking up at the young man, who rested both his quivering hands on the table to support himself. All eyes were turned to the one erect figure.

"That"--Horace nodded at the will--"that makes me master here, eh?"

"Undoubtedly," Hardwicke replied, wondering whether Horace was unusually slow of comprehension.

"Nothing can alter it?" said Horace. "I may do what I please in everything? I want to be sure."

"You can't sell it, if you mean that," said the lawyer. "Didn't you understand? You have only--"

"I know--I know that." The interruption was hasty, as if the speaker would not be reminded of an unpleasant truth.

Hardwicke's eyes rested on the two hands which were pressed on the table. They were painfully weak and white. "You are master here," he said gently. "Certainly. Your grandfather has made no conditions whatever. Brackenhill is yours for your life."

Horace looked fixedly at him, and half opened his lips as if to speak, but no sound came. It was so evident that he had something to say that the others waited in strained anxiety, and no one spoke except Mrs. James. She laid her fingers on his and said, "Now--why not now?"

"Leave me to manage it," he answered, and drew his hand away, provoking a lofty "Oh, _very_ well!" He walked hurriedly to the hearth-rug and stood in the master's place with an air of having taken possession. Hardwicke moved his chair a little, so as to look sideways at the new squire: Hammond put up his glass.

Mrs. James was like a living explanation of the text, "As an adamant harder than flint have I made thy forehead." Though she was sulky and persistently silent, there was a lurking triumph in her eyes, and it was easy to see that she listened eagerly for the words which seemed to die on her son's lips. He glanced quickly round, stepped back, and rested his elbow on the chimney-piece so awkwardly that a small china cup fell and was shivered to atoms on the hearth.

"Oh, Horace!" exclaimed Aunt Harriet.

"It's mine," said the young man with a nervous little laugh. "And--since Brackenhill is mine too--it is time that my wife should come home."

There was a startled movement and a sudden exclamation of surprise, though it would have been impossible to say who moved or spoke.

"Your wife! Do you mean that you are going to be married?" said Hardwicke.

"No. I mean that I am married," Horace replied. "Oh, it's all right enough. I took care of that. You shall know all about it."

"But how? when? who is she?" Mrs. Middleton had her hand on his arm and was stammering in her eagerness. "Oh, my dear boy, why didn't we know?"

"Because Mrs. Horace Thorne was Miss Adelaide Blake," said Hammond decisively.

Horace turned upon him and said "No," and he was utterly confounded.

"But who, then? Tell us."

Horace looked at Percival, the only one who had been silent. "Why not Lottie?" he said, and the tone was full of meaning.

Percival stared at him for a moment, and then leapt to his feet. "It isn't true!" he exclaimed.

"Indeed! And why not?" said Horace. "If I may ask--"

"Lottie do anything underhand! Lottie! It can't be true!"

"You're very kind, but Lottie doesn't want your championship, thank you," said Horace with an angry sneer. "No doubt you find it very incredible that she should prefer mine."

"Oh, by all means, if it suits her," scoffed Percival, and sat down again, feeling stunned, robbed and duped.

"And as to anything underhand--" Horace began fiercely.

Aunt Harriet, scared by the menacing clash of words, uttered a faint little cry.

"Percival! Horace!" said Godfrey Hammond, "you forget what day this is--you forget Mrs. Middleton. For God's sake don't quarrel before her!--Horace, is this really true? Is Lottie your wife?"

"Yes," said the young man, turning quickly toward him: there was a sudden light of tenderness in his glance--"since last November." He paused, and then added softly, "the third," as if the date were something sacred. "Hammond, you know her: you know how young she is--only eighteen this month. If you choose to blame any one, blame me. And I'm not ashamed of what I've done." He looked defiantly round. "I'm proud of having won her; and as to my having concealed it, I ask you, in common fairness, what else could I do? My grandfather used to be very good to me, but of late he was set against me." A quick glance at Percival, who smiled loftily. "Whatever I did was wrong. If I'd told him I was going to marry a princess, it wouldn't have satisfied him. Since this time last year I've hardly had a good word. I've been watched and lectured, and treated like an outsider here, in my own home. You know it's true, and you know to whom I owe it. I never expected to have my rights: I thought my grandfather would have no peace till I was driven out of Brackenhill. And even now I can't understand how it is that I am master here." Percival smiled again, to himself this time. "But Lottie was willing to share my poverty--God bless her!--and I won't let an hour go by without owning my wife. I should be ashamed of myself if I did."

Horace paused, not unconscious of the weakness of his position, yet more like the Horace of old days to look at--flushed, with a happy loyalty in his eyes and his proud head high in the air.

"No one will blame you for marrying the girl you loved," said Percival in his strong voice. "That is exactly what my father did. It is true that you manage matters in a different way, and naturally the result is different." He rose. "I prefer my father's way--result and all." And with a bow to the assembled company young Thorne walked out of the room.

Horace looked round to see how the attack was received--at Aunt Harriet, who was wiping away the quick coming tears; at Hardwicke, who was looking at the door through which Percival had vanished; at Hammond, who came forward a step or two. "I ordered a dog-cart to come over from Fordborough for me," he said. "If you will allow me I will ring and have it brought round."

"You are going?" said Horace.

"We shall just catch the four-o'clock train very comfortably if we go now," Godfrey replied. "Thorne will prefer going by that."

"I see: you take his part. Very well. I suppose sooner or later you must choose between us: as well now as later." Horace rang the bell.

"Horace," said Hammond, dropping his voice, yet speaking in the same tone of authority he had used once before that day, "for the first time in your life Mrs. Middleton is your guest. If you have a spark of right feeling--and you have more than that--you will not make her position here more painful than it must be. We will defer all discussion: there _must_ be a truce while she is here.--My dog-cart," he said over his shoulder to the servant. "It was to come from Fordborough. At once.--Keep out of the way ten minutes hence when your cousin goes," he added to Horace: "it will be best."

The young squire bent his head in sulky acquiescence.

"I shall take Percival with me," said Hammond to Mrs. Middleton as he went by. "He wants to be off, I know, and I shall be of more use with him than here."

He found Percival crushing his things into his little portmanteau and in hot haste to get away from Brackenhill.

"I'm going by the four train," Hammond remarked, "and I've told them you'll drive with me."

"In one of _his_ carriages?" said young Thorne, looking up with furious eyes. "No, thank you: I'll walk."

"If you jumped out of that window you wouldn't have to go down his staircase," said Hammond.

"Oh, if you came here to--" began the young man, tugging at a strap.

"I came here to ask you to drive with me in the dog-cart from the Crown. It's no use pulling a strap _much_ past the tightest hole. Come, you are not going to quarrel with me?"

"I'm a fool," said Percival. "I shall feel it all in a minute or two, I suppose. Just now I only feel that everything belongs to the man who has duped me, and every breath I draw is choking me."

"I understand," returned Hammond. "Percival, Mrs. Middleton is coming: I hear her step. For her sake--to-day--Thorne, you will not break her heart?"

The old lady was knocking at the half-open door. "Come in," said Percival in a gentle voice. His portmanteau was strapped, and he rose as she entered. "Come to say good-bye to me, Aunt Harriet? I'm off, you see."

"Oh, Percival, I can't understand it!" she exclaimed. "Horace married--_married_! And you going away like this! It is like a dream."

"So it seems to me," said the young man.

"And one of those Miss Blakes! Oh dear! what would Godfrey have said? Oh, Percival, he never meant this!" She had her hand to her forehead as she spoke.

"No," said Percival. "But don't fret about me: I shall do very well."

"But it isn't right. Oh, I don't know what to say or think, I am so bewildered. Perhaps Horace has hardly had time to think yet, has he?" she said faintly. "He will do something, I'm sure--"

"He mustn't--don't let him! I can hold my tongue if I'm let alone. But if he insults me--" said Percival. "Aunt Harriet, for God's sake, _don't_ let him offer me money."

"Ah!" in an accent of pain. "But my money! Percival, do you want any? It's a good thing, as _he_ said, that Mr. Lisle didn't fail before you came into yours, but if you want any--"

"But I don't," said Percival. "As you say, it's a good thing I have some of my own." He had his fingers in his waistcoat pocket, and was wondering which of the coins that he felt there would prove to be gold. It was an important question. "Don't vex yourself about me, Aunt Harriet. Kiss me and say good-bye: there isn't much time, is there? Tell Sissy--" he stopped abruptly.

"What?" said the old lady.

"Tell her--I don't know. You'll let me hear how she is. You've been very good to me, Aunt Harriet. It's best as it is about Sissy, isn't it, seeing how things have turned out?"

He caught up his luggage and went quickly out, but only to turn and pause irresolutely in the doorway.

"I'll not say anything about Horace: we are best apart. But Lottie! I liked Lottie: we were very good friends when she was a school-girl. She is very young still. Perhaps she didn't understand. I ought to say this, because you never knew her, and I did."

And having said it, he went away with a light on his sombre face. Mrs. Middleton looked up at Hammond with streaming eyes and shook her head: "I shall never like that girl: I shall never have anything to do with her. Godfrey was right."

"In what way?"

"Percival was his favorite always."

"I'll look after him," said Hammond; and with a quick pressure of her hand he followed the young man down stairs.

As they drove away Percival sat erect and grave, with a face as darkly still as if it were moulded in bronze. He went away from the dear old house without one backward glance: Horace might be looking out. He never spoke, and when they reached the station he took his ticket and got into the carriage without the least reference to Hammond, who followed him quietly. There was no one else with them. The silence was unbroken till they drew near their journey's end, when Thorne took out his ticket and examined it curiously. "I wonder if I shall ever see another?" he said.

"Another what?"

"First-class ticket. I ought to have gone third."

"You get an opportunity of studying character, no doubt. But I think this is better to-day," said Hammond.

Percival was silent for a moment. Then he spread all his money on his open hand and eyed it: "What do you think of that for a fortune, eh, Godfrey?"

Godfrey glanced at the little constellation of gold and silver coins. "Wants a little more spending," he said. "Two-pence halfpenny is the mystic sum which turns to millions. So Lisle has swindled you, has he? I thought as much."

Percival nodded: "Keep my secret. They sha'n't say that I lived on my grandfather first, and then on Aunt Harriet or Sissy. They may find it out later, and welcome if I have shown them that I can do without them all."

"Ah yes," said Hammond a little vaguely. "Here we are."