CHAPTER LI
On one point, however, Angela's efforts failed completely; she couldmake no headway with her father. He shrank more than ever from hersociety, and at last asked her to oblige him by allowing him to followhis own path in peace. Of Arthur's death he had never spoken to her,or she to him, but she knew that he had heard of it.
Philip had heard of it thus. On that Christmas afternoon he had beentaking his daily exercise when he met Lady Bellamy returning from theAbbey House. The carriage stopped, and she got out to speak to him.
"Have you been to the Abbey House to pay a Christmas visit?" he asked."It is very kind of you to come and see us so soon after your return."
"I am the bearer of bad news, so I did not loiter."
"Bad news! what was it?"
"Mr. Heigham is dead," she answered, watching his face narrowly.
"Dead, impossible!"
"He died of enteric fever at Madeira. I have just been to break thenews to Angela."
"Oh, indeed, she will be pained; she was very fond of him, you know."
Lady Bellamy smiled contemptuously.
"Did you ever see any one put to the extremest torture? If you have,you can guess how your daughter was 'pained.'"
Philip winced.
"Well, I can't help it, it is no affair of mine. Good-bye," and then,as soon as she was out of hearing; "I wonder if she lies, or if shehas murdered him. George must have been putting on the screw."
Into the particulars of Arthur Heigham's death, or supposed death, henever inquired. Why should he? It was no affair of his; he had longago washed his hands of the whole matter, and left things to taketheir chance. If he was dead, well and good, he was very sorry forhim; if he was alive, well and good also. In that case, he would nodoubt arrive on the appointed date to marry Angela.
But, notwithstanding all this unanswerable reasoning, he still foundit quite impossible to look his daughter in the face. Her eyes stillburnt him, ay, even more than ever did they burn, for her widoweddress and brow were agony to him, and rent his heart, not with remorsebut fear. But still his greed kept the upper hand, though death bymental torture must result, yet he would glut himself with his desire.More than ever he hungered for those wide lands which, if only thingsfell out right, would become his at so ridiculous a price. DecidedlyArthur Heigham's death was "no affair of his."
About six weeks before Angela's conversation with Mr. Fraser whichended in her undertaking parish work, a rumour had got about thatGeorge Caresfoot had been taken ill, very seriously ill. It was saidthat a chill had settled on his lungs, which had never been verystrong since his fever, and that he had, in short, gone into aconsumption.
Of George, Angela had neither seen nor heard anything for some time--not since she received the welcome letter in which he relinquished hissuit. She had, indeed, with that natural readiness of the human mindto forget unpleasant occurrences, thought but little about him oflate, since her mind had been more fully occupied with other and morepressing things. Still she vaguely wondered at times if he was reallyso ill as her father thought.
One day she was walking home by the path round the lake, after payinga visit to a sick child in the village, when she suddenly came face toface with her father. She expected that he would as usual pass onwithout addressing her, and drew to one side of the path to allow himto do so, but to her surprise he stopped.
"Where have you been, Angela?"
"To see Ellen Mim; she is very ill, poor child."
"You had better be careful; you will be catching scarlet fever orsomething--there is a great deal about."
"I am not at all afraid."
"Yes; but you never think that you may bring it home to me."
"I never thought that there was any likelihood of my bringing anythingto you. We see so little of each other."
"Well, well, I have been to Isleworth to see your cousin George; he isvery ill."
"You told me that he was ill some time back. What is it that is reallythe matter with him?"
"Galloping consumption. He cannot last long."
"Poor man, why does he not go to a warmer climate?"
"I don't know--that is his affair. But it is a serious matter for me.If he dies under present circumstances, all the Isleworth estates,which are mine by right, must pass away from the family forever."
"Why must they pass away?"
"Because your grandfather, with a refined ingenuity, made a provisionin his will that George was not to leave them back to me, as he wastelling me this afternoon he is anxious to do. If he were to die nowwith a will in my favour, or without any will at all, they would allgo to some far away cousins in Scotland."
"He died of heart-disease, did he not?--my grandfather, I mean?"
Philip's face grew black as night, and he shot a quick glance ofsuspicion at his daughter.
"I was saying," he went on, without answering her question, "thatGeorge may sell the land or settle it, but must not leave it to me oryou, nor can I take under an intestacy."
Angela did not understand these legal intricacies, and knew about asmuch about the law of intestacy as she did of Egyptian inscriptions.
"Well," she said, consolingly, "I am very sorry, but it can't behelped, can it?"
"The girl is a born fool," muttered Philip beneath his breath, andpassed on.
A week or so afterwards, just when the primroses and Lent-lilies wereat the meridian of their beauty and all the air was full of song,Angela heard more about her cousin George. Mr. Fraser was one day sentfor to Isleworth; Lady Bellamy brought him the message, saying thatGeorge was in such a state of health that he wished to see aclergyman.
"I never saw a worse case," he said to Angela on his return. "He doesnot leave the house, but lies in a darkened room coughing and spittingblood. He is, I should say, going off fast; but he refuses to see adoctor. His frame of mind, however, is most Christian, and he seems tohave reconciled himself to the prospect of a speedy release."
"Poor man!" said Angela sympathetically; "he sent and asked to seeyou, did he not?"
"Well--yes; but when I got there he talked more about the things ofthis world than of the next. He is greatly distressed about yourfather. I daresay you have heard how your cousin George supplantedyour father in the succession to the Isleworth estates. Yourgrandfather disinherited him, you know, because of his marriage withyour mother. Now that he is dying, he sees the injustice of this, butis prevented by the terms of your grandfather's will from restoringthe land to your branch of the family, so it must pass to some distantcousins--at least, so I understand the matter."
"You always told me that it is easy to drive a coach and four throughwills and settlements and legal things. If he is so anxious to do so,can he not find a way out of the difficulty--I mean, some honourableway?"
"No, I believe not, except an impossible one," and Mr. Fraser smiled arather forced smile.
"What is that?" asked Angela carelessly.
"Well, that he should--should marry _you_ before he dies. At least,you know, he says that that is the only way in which he could legallytransfer the estates."
Angela started and turned pale.
"Then I am afraid the estates will never be transferred. How wouldthat help him?"
"Well, he says he could then enter into a nominal sale of the estatesto your father and settle the money on you."
"And why could he not do this without marrying me?"
"I don't know, I don't understand much about these things, I am not abusiness man; but it is impossible for some reason or another. But ofcourse it is absurd. Good night, my dear. Don't overdo it in theparish."
Another week passed without any particular news of George's illness,except that he was getting weaker, when one day Lady Bellamy appearedat the Abbey House, where she had not been since that dreadfulChristmas Day. Angela felt quite cold when she saw her enter, and hergreeting was as cold as herself.
"I hope that you bring me no more bad news," she said.
&
nbsp; "No, Angela, except that your cousin George is dying, but that isscarcely likely to distress you."
"I am sorry."
"Are you? There is no particular reason why you should be. You do notlike him."
"No, I do not like him."
"It is a pity though, because I have come to ask you to marry him."
"Upon my word, Lady Bellamy, you seem to be the chosen messenger ofeverything that is wretched. Last time you came to this house it wasto tell me of dear Arthur's death, and now it is to ask me to marry aman whom I detest. I thought that I had told both you and him that Iwill not marry him. I have gone as near marrying as I ever mean to inthis world."
"Really, Angela, you are most unjust to me. Do you suppose that it wasany pleasure to me to have such a sad duty to perform? However, it isrefreshing to hear you talk so vigorously. Clearly the loss of yourlover has not affected your spirits."
Angela winced beneath the taunt, but made no reply.
"But, if you will condescend to look at the matter with a single grainof common-sense, you will see that circumstances have utterly changedsince you refused to marry George. Then, Mr. Heigham was alive, poorfellow, and then, too, George wanted to marry you as a wife, now he ismerely anxious to marry you that he may be enabled to make reparationto your father. He is a fast-dying man. You would never be his wifeexcept in name. The grave would be his only marriage-bed. Do you notunderstand the difference?"
"Perfectly, but do _you_ not understand that whether in deed or inname I cannot outrage my dead Arthur's memory by being for an hour thewife of that man? Do _you_ not know that the marriage service requiresa woman to swear to 'Love, honour, and obey,' till death parts,whether it be a day or a lifetime away? Can I, even as a mere form,swear to love when I loathe, honour when I despise, obey when my wholelife would rise in rebellion against obedience! What are these estatesto me that I should do such violence to my conscience and my memories?Estates, of what use are they to one whose future lies in the wards ofa hospital or a sisterhood? I will have nothing to do with thismarriage, Lady Bellamy."
"Well, I must say, Angela, you do not make much ado about ruining yourfather to gratify your own sentimental whims. It must be a comfortablething to have children to help one in one's old age."
Angela reflected on Mr. Fraser's words about her duty to her father,and for the second time that day she winced beneath Lady Bellamy'staunt; but, as she returned no answer, her visitor had no alternativebut to drop the subject and depart.
Before she went, however, she had a few words with Philip, urging theserious state of George's health and the terms of his grandfather'swill, which prevented him from leaving the estates to himself, as areason why he should put pressure on Angela. Somewhat, but notaltogether to her surprise, he refused in these terms:
"I don't know to what depths you have gone in this business, and it isno affair of mine to inquire, but I have kept to my share of thebargain and I expect you to keep to yours. If you can bring about themarriage with George, well or ill, on the terms I have agreed uponwith him, I shall throw no obstacle in the way; but as for my tryingto force Angela into it, I should never take the responsibility ofdoing so, nor would she listen to me. If she speaks to me on thesubject I shall point out how the family will be advantaged, and leavethe matter to her. Further I will not go."
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