Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  “I was deliberating whether I should go in to service this afternoon,” said George — a sort of excuse for lounging against the door-post, as he shook hands with Mr. Arkell.

  “By way of passing away the time!” cried the clergyman, some covert reproof in his tone.

  “Well — yes,” returned George, who was by no means unwilling to confess to his shortcomings. “It is a bore, having nothing to do.”

  “When you first came home you brought a cartload of books with you, red-hot upon studying Hindustanée. I wonder how many times you have opened them!”

  Mr. Prattleton passed into the cathedral as he spoke. It was time he did, for the bell had been going twelve minutes. George pulled a rueful face as he thought of his Hindustanée.

  “I tried it for six whole days after I came home, Mr. Arkell — I give you my word I did; but I couldn’t get on at all by myself, and there is not a master to be had in the town. I shall set to it in right earnest before I go out again.”

  Mr. Arkell laughed. He rather liked the good-natured young man, and Travice he knew was fond of him.

  “But, George, you should remember one thing,” he said: “idleness does not get a man on in the world. You have a fine career before you out yonder, if you only take the trouble to secure it.”

  “I know that, Mr. Arkell; and I assure you not a fellow in all the three presidencies is steadier than I am, or works harder than I do, when I am there. It is only here, where I have no work before me, that I get into this dawdling way.”

  Mr. Arkell left him, passed out of the cathedral inclosure, and continued his way up the town. George Prattleton remained where he was, wondering what on earth he could do with himself. It was too late to go in to service, for the bell had ceased, the organ was pealing out, and he caught a glimpse, across the great body of the cathedral, of the white surplices of the dean and two of the chapter, as they whisked in at the cloister door. George Prattleton believed time must be given to mortals as a punishment for their sins. He had not a sixpence in his pocket; he owed so much at the billiard-rooms that he did not like to show his face there; he was in debt to all the tobacconists of the place; he had borrowed money from private friends; and altogether he rather wished for an earthquake, or something of that light nature, by way of a diversion to the general stagnation of the sultry afternoon.

  Mr. Arkell meanwhile reached the house of lawyer Fauntleroy, for that was the place he was bound for. Mr. Fauntleroy was not his solicitor, but he had a question to ask him on a matter unconnected with professional business. As he was turning out of the office again, he nearly ran against a stranger in deep mourning, who was looking up, as though he wanted to find the number of the house. He was a slight, delicate-looking young man; and it instantly struck Mr. Arkell that he had seen his face before, or one like it.

  “I beg your pardon,” said the stranger, taking his hat more completely off than an Englishman generally does to one of his own sex, “can you tell me whether this is Mr. Fauntleroy’s?”

  “It is Mr. Fauntleroy’s. I think — I think you are the son of Robert Carr!” impulsively cried Mr. Arkell, as the resemblance to the exiled and now dead friend of his boyhood flashed across his memory.

  It was no other. The Reverend Robert Carr had hastened to Westerbury as soon as family arrangements and his own health permitted him. A few moments of conversation, and Mr. Arkell turned back with him to introduce him to Lawyer Fauntleroy, thinking at the same time that he had rarely seen anyone look so thin, so pale, so shadowy as Robert Carr.

  It was a handsome house, this of Lawyer Fauntleroy’s — and if you object to the term “Lawyer Fauntleroy,” as old-fashioned, you must not blame me for using it. Westerbury rarely called him anything else; does not call him anything else now, if it has occasion to recal him or his doings. The offices were on either side of the door, as you entered; Mr. Fauntleroy’s private room, a large, well fitted-up apartment, being on the right; a small ante-room led to it, generally the sanctum of the managing clerk.

  Mr. Fauntleroy was at leisure, and the whole affair in all its details, past and present, was related to Robert Carr. Mr. Arkell remained also. It was not a pleasant office to have to seek to convince this young man of his own illegitimacy, never a doubt of which had arisen in his mind.

  “My mother not married!” he repeated, a streak of suspicious crimson — suspicious when taken in conjunction with that hacking cough, those shadowy hands— “indeed you would not entertain such a thought had you known her. She was, I believe, of inferior family, but in herself she was a lady, and her children had cause to love and bless her. Not married! Why, are you aware, Mr. Fauntleroy, that my father was a partner in one of the first merchant’s houses in Rotterdam, and that my mother held her own, and was visited, and respected as few are, so long as she lived?”

  Lawyer Fauntleroy shook his head. He was a man who took practical views of most things, utterly scorning theoretical ones.

  “I don’t doubt your word, Mr. Carr, that your mother was a most estimable lady; I remember her myself, an uncommon pretty girl; but that does not prove that she was married.”

  Mr. Carr’s eyes flashed. “Not prove it! Do you think, being what I tell you she was, a good, religious woman, that she would have lived with my father unless they had been married?”

  “I have known such cases,” cried the lawyer, with his dry practicalness, if there is such a word. “One of the first men in this city — if you except the clergy and that set — Haughton was his name, and plenty of money he had, and lived in style, as Mr. Arkell here can tell you, his sons sticking themselves above everybody, his wife and daughters setting the fashions — well, Mr. Carr, when he died, it was discovered that his wife was not his wife; that his children were nothing in the eyes of the law. Westerbury was electrified, I can tell you, and bestows hard names upon old Haughton to this day, for having so imposed upon them.”

  “You should not put such a case on a parallel with ours,” said the young clergyman, in pained reproof.

  “But, my good sir, it is on a parallel; so far, at all events. I tell you this family were looked upon as superior, as everything that was moral; not a word could be urged against the wife (as we’ll call her for the argument’s sake); she was respected and visited; and not until old Haughton died, and his will came to be read, did the secret ooze out. He left his money to them, but he could not leave it in the usual straightforward way. By the way,” added the lawyer briskly, as a thought struck him; “in what manner was your father’s will worded? How was your mother styled in it?”

  “You forget that my mother has been dead for some time. The will was made only two years ago. It was a perfectly legally-drawn-up will, according to the Dutch laws; there can be no doubt of that.”

  “Do you remember how you are described in it, and your brothers and sisters?” persisted Mr. Fauntleroy.

  “I have but one brother and one sister; we are described in what I suppose is the usual manner, by our Christian names, Robert, Thomas, and Mary Augusta, the sons and daughter of Robert Carr. It is something to that effect; I did not take particular notice of the wording.”

  “I wonder what the law is, over there, with regard to legitimacy?” mused Mr. Fauntleroy, his eyes seeing an imaginary Holland in the distance. “But, Mr. Carr, this is waste of time,” he added, rousing himself; “the plain case round which the question will revolve, is not so much whether your father and mother were married, as whether it can be proved that they were. The law, in a case like this, requires proof actual — and very right that it should.”

  “I suppose there will not be the slightest difficulty in proving it,” said Robert Carr, resenting the very suggestion.

  “Can you prove it? Do you know where it took place?”

  The young man shook his head. “I never heard where. It can be readily found out.”

  “Did you ever question your father upon the point?”

  “No; it was not likely I should, seeing that my attentio
n was never drawn to any doubt of the sort.”

  “Well, Westerbury has never entertained any doubt the other way,” said the lawyer. “It is not agreeable to say these things to your face, Mr. Carr; but there’s no help for it; and the sooner the question is set at rest for you, one way or the other, the better. I should not think there’s a single person living still in Westerbury, who recollects the circumstances as they took place, that would believe your father married Miss Hughes after she went away with him.”

  “It is probable they were married before they did go away,” spoke Robert Carr, hating more than he liked to show the being compelled to this discussion.

  “That, I can answer for, they were not. When they left here she was Martha Ann Hughes.”

  “Mr. Fauntleroy is right so far,” interposed Mr. Arkell. “They were not married when they left Westerbury: on that point there can be no mistake. The question that remains is, were they married subsequent to it?”

  “They must have been,” said Robert Carr.

  “But there is no must in the case,” dissented the lawyer. “The probabilities are that they were not: the belief is such.”

  “I do not see why you should persistently seek to cast this opprobrium on my father and mother, Mr. Fauntleroy!” exclaimed Robert Carr, his hollow face lighting up with reproach.

  “Bless you, my good sir, I don’t seek to cast it,” said the lawyer, good-humouredly. “Facts are facts. If you can prove that Robert Carr married Miss Hughes, and your own legal birth with it, you will take the property; but if you can’t prove it, Squire Carr must keep possession, and things will remain as they are. Where’s the use of shutting our eyes to the truth?”

  “There can be no doubt whatever of the marriage. I am sure of it; I would stake all my hopes upon it here and — I was going to say — hereafter.”

  “But you so speak only according to your belief, sir? You have no shadow of proof.”

  “True; but — —”

  “Just so,” interrupted Mr. Fauntleroy, in his decisive and rather overbearing manner. “All the proofs lie on the other side — negative proofs, at any rate. They went away together without being married; that is certain — and, by the way, they hoaxed my friend here, William Arkell, into helping them off; and I believe his father never forgave him for it. Neither were there wanting subsequent proofs — negative ones, perhaps, as I say — that they remained unmarried; at any rate, for some years. Rely upon one thing, Mr. Robert Carr: that old Marmaduke, just dead, would have left his money away from his son unless he had been thoroughly certain that no marriage took place. He had sworn to disinherit his son if he married Miss Hughes, and he was a man to keep his word.”

  “Excuse me,” said Robert Carr: “you do not perceive that this very fact may have been the motive that induced my father to keep his marriage a secret.”

  “I perceive it very well. But it is a great deal more probable that there never was a marriage. Weigh all the circumstances well, Mr. Carr; without prejudice: though, of course, it is difficult for you to do so. Over and over again your father was heard to say that he had no intention of marrying the girl — —”

  “You forget that you are speaking to me of my mother,” interrupted Robert Carr.

  “Well, yes, I did,” acknowledged the lawyer. “It is difficult to speak to a son upon these things; but I think, Mr. Carr, you had better hear them. Mr. Arkell there, who was your father’s intimate acquaintance, can testify how positively he disclaimed, even to him, any intention of marriage. Next came the — —”

  “Allow me,” interposed the clergyman, his haughty tone bespeaking how painful all this was to him. “I presume no suspicion was cast upon my mother’s name while she was in Westerbury?”

  “Not a breath of it. Blame was cast, though, on her and her sisters for allowing the visits of Robert Carr: as is usual in all cases where there is much disparity in the social standing of the parties. Next came the elopement, I was about to say. They went direct to London, where they stayed together — —”

  “The marriage must have taken place there,” again interrupted Robert Carr.

  “I believe not,” said Mr. Fauntleroy, dryly. “Marmaduke Carr took care to acquaint himself with particulars, and it was ascertained that they did not remain in London long enough to allow of it. The law, more particular then than it is now, required a residence of three weeks in a place, before a marriage could be solemnized, and they left for Holland ere the expiration of a fortnight. It was our house — my father then being its head — which sought out these particulars for old Marmaduke. No; rely upon it there was no marriage in London.”

  His tone plainly said, “Rely upon it there was no marriage, there or elsewhere.” Mr. Carr was about to speak, but the lawyer raised his hand and continued.

  “Some little time after they had settled in Rotterdam, John Carr — Squire Carr now — went over and saw them. There’s no doubt his visit was a fishing one, hoping to find out that a marriage had taken place; for in that case, Marmaduke Carr would have wanted another heir than his son. I am sure that John, close-fisted as he was known to be, would have given a hundred pounds out of his pocket to be able to come back and report that they were married; but he could not. He was obliged to confess not only that his cousin and Miss Hughes were not married, but that Robert had told him he never should marry her. And, indeed, it was hardly to be supposed that he would then.”

  “But — —”

  “A moment yet, if you please, Mr. Carr. Some considerable time after this, and when I think there was one child born — which must have been you, sir — Mr. Carr got to see a letter written by Martha Ann Hughes to her sister Mary. I think he got the sight of it through you, Mr. Arkell?”

  “Through my father. Mary Hughes was at work at our house, and Tring, our maid, brought the letter on the sly to my mother. My father, I remember, said he should like to show it to Marmaduke Carr; and he did so.”

  “Ay. Well, Mr. Carr, nothing could have been plainer than that letter. Mary Ann Hughes acknowledged that she had no hope of Robert’s marrying her; but he was kind to her, she said, and she was as happy as anyone well could be under her unfortunate circumstances. Indeed, I fear you have no room for hope.”

  “Where is that letter?” asked the clergyman.

  “It’s impossible to say. Destroyed most likely long ago. None of your mother’s family are remaining in Westerbury.”

  “Are they all dead?”

  “Dead or dispersed. The brother went off to America or somewhere; and the second sister, Mary, died: it was said she grieved a great deal about her sister, your mother. The eldest sister married a young man of the name of Pycroft, and they also emigrated. Nothing has been heard of any of them for years.”

  “You must permit me to maintain my own opinion, Mr. Fauntleroy,” pursued Robert Carr; “and I shall certainly not allow anyone to interfere with my grandfather’s property. If the other branch of the family — Squire Carr and his sons — wish to put forth any pretensions to it, they must first prove their right.”

  Mr. Fauntleroy laughed. He was amused at the clergyman’s idea of law.

  “The proof lies with you, Mr. Carr,” he said; “and not with them. They cannot prove a negative, you know; and they say that no marriage took place. It is for you to prove that it did. Failing that proof, the property will be theirs.”

  “And meanwhile? While we are searching for the proof?” questioned Robert Carr, after a pause.

  “Meanwhile they retain possession. I understand that Mrs. Lewis has already come over and taken up her abode in the house.”

  “Who is Mrs. Lewis?” asked the clergyman.

  “Squire Carr’s widowed daughter. She has been living at home since her husband died. I was told this morning that she had come to the house with the intention of remaining.”

  Mr. Fauntleroy’s information was correct. Mrs. Lewis had come to Marmaduke Carr’s house, and was fully resolved to stop in it, fate and the squire permitting. Mr
. Lewis had died about a year before, and left her not so well off as she could have wished. She had a competency; but she had not riches. She broke up her household in the Grounds, and went on a long visit to her father’s, to save housekeeping temporarily; leaving her two boys, who were on the foundation of the college school, as boarders at the house of Mr. Wilberforce.

  CHAPTER VIII.

  GOING OVER TO SQUIRE CARR’S.

  Mr. Arkell put his arm within Robert Carr’s, as they walked away together. It would be difficult to express how very much he felt for this young man. His father’s fault was not his, and Mr. Arkell, at least, would not be one to visit it upon him. For a few yards their steps were taken in silence; but the clergyman spoke at last, his eye dilating, his voice vehement.

  “If they had only known my mother as I knew her, they would see how improbable is this tale that they are telling! I do not care what their suspicions are, what their want of proof; I know that my mother was my father’s wife.”

  “Indeed I hope it will prove so,” said Mr. Arkell, rather at a loss what else to say.

  “She was modest, gentle, good, refined; she was respected as few are respected. There never was a trace of shame upon her brow. Could her children have been trained as she trained hers, if — if — I can hardly trust myself to speak of this. It is a cruel calumny.”

  Perhaps so. But, looking at it in its best light; allowing that they were really married; the calumny was alone the fault of this young man’s father. If he could have removed the stigma, he should have done it. Did this poor young man begin to think so? Did unwilling doubts arise, even to him? Scarcely, yet. But the lines grew hard in his face as they walked along, and his troubled eyes looked out straight before him into space, seeing nothing.