But as he was about to leave the room he stood for a moment on the rug before the fireplace and looked into the huge mirror which stood there.
If the walls might be his, as well as the garnishing of them, and if Florence Mountjoy could come and reign there, then he fancied that they all might be put to a better purpose than that of which he had thought.
In earlier days, two or three years ago, at a time which now seemed to him to be very distant, he had regarded Florence as his own, and as such had demanded her hand. In the pride of his birth, and position, and fashion, he had had no thought of her feelings, and had been imperious.
He told himself that it had been so with much self-condemnation. At any rate, he had learned, during those months of solitary wandering, the power of condemning himself. And now he told him that if she would yet come he might still learn to sing that song of the old-fashioned poet "as to the ten commandments." At any rate, he would endeavor to sing it, as she bade him.
He went on through all the bedrooms, remembering, but hardly more than remembering, them as he entered them. "Oh, Florence,--my Florence!" he said, as he pa.s.sed on. He had done it all for himself,--brought down upon his own head this infinite ruin,--and for what? He had scarcely ever won, and Tretton was gone from him forever. But still there might yet be a chance if he could abstain from gambling.
And then, when it was dusk within the house, he went out, and pa.s.sed through the stables and roamed about the gardens till the evening had altogether set in, and black night had come upon him. Two years ago he had known that he was the heir to it all, though even then that habit was so strong upon him he had felt that his tenure of it would be but slight. But he had then always to tell himself that when his marriage had taken place a great change would be effected. His marriage had not taken place, and the next fatal year had fallen upon him. As long as the inheritance of the estate was certainly his, he could a.s.suredly raise money,--at a certain cost. It was well known that the property was rising in value, and the money had always been forthcoming,--at a tremendous sacrifice. He had excused to himself his recklessness on the ground of his delayed marriage, but still always treating her, on the few occasions on which they had met, with an imperiousness which had been natural to him. Then the final crash had come, and the estate was as good as gone. But the crash, which had been in truth final, had come afterward, almost as soon as his father had learned what was to be the fate of Tretton; and he had found himself to be a b.a.s.t.a.r.d with a dishonored mother,--just a n.o.body in the eyes of the world. And he learned at the same time that Harry Annesley was the lover whom Florence Mountjoy really loved. What had followed has been told already,--perhaps too often.
But at this moment, as he stood in the gloom of the night, below the porch in the front of the house, swinging his stick at the top of the big steps, an acknowledgment of contrition was very heavy upon him.
Though he was prepared to go to law the moment that Augustus put himself forward as the eldest son, he did recognize how long-suffering his father had been, and how much had been done for him in order, if possible, to preserve him. And he knew, whatever might be the result of his lawsuit, that his father"s only purpose had been to save the property for one of them. As it was, legacies which might be valued at perhaps thirty thousand pounds would be his. He would expend it all on the lawsuit, if he could find lawyers to undertake his suit. His anger, too, against his brother was quite as hot as was that of his father.
When he had been obliterated and obliged to vanish, from the joint effects of his violence in the streets and his inability to pay his gambling debts at the club, he had, in an evil moment, submitted himself to Augustus; and from that hour Augustus had become to him the most cruel of tyrants. And this tyranny had come to an end with his absolute banishment from his brother"s house. Though he had been subdued to obedience in the lowest moment of his fall, he was not the man who could bear such tyranny well. "I can forgive my father," he said, "but Augustus I will never forgive." Then he went into the house, and in a short time was sitting at dinner with Merton, the young doctor and secretary. Miss Scarborough seldom came to table at that hour, but remained in a room up-stairs, close to her brother, so that she might be within call should she be wanted. "Upon the whole, Merton," he said, "what do you think of my father?" The doctor shrugged his shoulders.
"Will he live or will he die?"
"He will die, certainly."
"Do not joke with me. But I know you would not joke on such a subject.
And my question did not merely go to the state of his health. What do you think of him as a man generally? Do you call him an honest man?"
"How am I to answer you?"
"Just the truth."
"If you will have an answer, I do not consider him an honest man. All this story about your brother is true or is not true. In neither case can one look upon him as honest."
"Just so."
"But I think that he has within him a capacity for love, and an unselfishness, which almost atones for his dishonesty; and there is about him a strange dislike to conventionality and to law which is so interesting as to make up the balance. I have always regarded your father as a most excellent man, but thoroughly dishonest. He would rob any one,--but always to eke out his own gifts to other people. He has, therefore, to my eyes been most romantic."
"And as to his health?"
"Ah, as to that I cannot answer so decidedly. He will do nothing because I tell him."
"Do you mean that you could prolong his life?"
"Certainly I think that I could. He has exerted himself this morning, whereas I have advised him not to exert himself. He could have given himself the same counsel, and would certainly live longer by obeying it than the reverse. As there is no difficulty in the matter, there need be no conceit on my part in saying that so far my advice might be of service to him."
"How long will he live?"
"Who can say? Sir William Brodrick, when that fearful operation was performed in London, thought that a month would see the end of it. That is eight months ago, and he has more vitality now than he had then. For myself, I do not think that he can live another month."
Later on in the evening Mountjoy Scarborough began again. "The governor thinks that you have behaved uncommonly well to him."
"I am paid for it all."
"But he has not left you anything by his will."
"I have certainly expected nothing, and there could be no reason why he should."
"He has entertained an idea of late that he wishes to make what reparation may be possible to me; and therefore, as he says, he does not choose to burden his will with legacies. There is some provision made for my aunt, who, however, has her own fortune. He has told me to look after you."
"It will be quite unnecessary," said Mr. Merton.
"If you choose to cut up rough you can do so. I would propose that we should fix upon some sum which shall be yours at his death,--just as though he had left it to you. Indeed, he shall fix the sum himself."
Merton, of course, said that nothing of the kind would be necessary; but with this understanding Mountjoy Scarborough went that night to bed.
Early on the following morning his father again sent for him.
"Mountjoy," he said, "I have thought much about it, and I have changed my mind."
"About your will?"
"No, not about my will at all. That shall remain as it is. I do not think I should have strength to make another will, nor do I wish to do so."
"You mean about Merton?"
"I don"t mean about Merton at all. Give him five hundred pounds, and he ought to be satisfied. This is a matter of more importance than Mr.
Merton--or even than my will."
"What is it?" said Mountjoy, in a tone of much surprise.
"I don"t think I can tell you now. But it is right that you should know that Merton wrote, by my instructions, to Mr. Grey early this morning, and has implored him to come to Tretton once again. There! I cannot say more than that now." Then he turned round on his couch, as was his custom, and was una.s.sailable.
CHAPTER LIV.
RUMMELSBURG.
Mr. Scarborough again sent for Mr. Grey, but a couple of weeks pa.s.sed before he came. At first he refused to come, saying that he would send his clerk down if any work were wanted such as the clerk might do. And the clerk did come and was very useful. But Mr. Scarborough persevered, using arguments which Mr. Grey found himself unable at last to resist.
He was dying, and there would soon be an end of it. That was his strongest argument. Then it was alleged that a lawyer of experience was certainly needed, and that Mr. Scarborough could not very well put his affairs into the hands of a stranger. And old friendship was brought up.
And, then, at last, the squire alleged that there were other secrets to be divulged respecting his family, of which Mr. Scarborough thought that Mr. Grey would approve. What could be the "other secrets?" But it ended in Mr. Grey a.s.senting to go, in opposition to his daughter"s advice. "I would have nothing more to do with him or his secrets," Dolly had said.
"You do not know him."
"I know as much about him as a woman can know of a man she doesn"t know,--and all from yourself. You have said over and over again that he is a "rascal!""
"Not a rascal. I don"t think I said he was a rascal."
"I believe you used that very word."
"Then I unsay it. A rascal has something mean about him. Juniper"s a rascal!"
"He cares nothing for his word."
"Nothing at all,--when the law is concerned."