_ The January afternoon was passing into night, the air was cold and
still, so still that not a single twig of the naked beech-trees
stirred; on the grass of the meadows lay a thin white rime, half
frost, half snow; the firs stood out blackly against a steel-hued sky,
and over the tallest of them hung a single star. Past these bordering
firs there ran a road, on which, in this evening of the opening of our
story, a young man stood irresolute, glancing now to the right and now
to the left.
To his right were two stately gates of iron fantastically wrought,
supported by stone pillars on whose summits stood griffins of black
marble embracing coats of arms, and banners inscribed with the device
/Per ardua ad astra/. Beyond these gates ran a broad carriage drive,
lined on either side by a double row of such oaks as England alone can
produce under the most favourable circumstances of soil, aided by the
nurturing hand of man and three or four centuries of time.
At the head of this avenue, perhaps half a mile from the roadway,
although it looked nearer because of the eminence upon which it was
placed, stood a mansion of the class that in auctioneers'
advertisements is usually described as "noble." Its general appearance
was Elizabethan, for in those days some forgotten Outram had
practically rebuilt it; but a large part of its fabric was far more
ancient than the Tudors, dating back, so said tradition, to the time
of King John. As we are not auctioneers, however, it will be
unnecessary to specify its many beauties; indeed, at this date, some
of the tribe had recently employed their gift of language on these
attractions with copious fulness and accuracy of detail, since Outram
Hall, for the first time during six centuries, was, or had been, for
sale.
Suffice it to say that, like the oaks of its avenue, Outram was such a
house as can only be found in England; no mere mass of bricks and
mortar, but a thing that seemed to have acquired a life and
individuality of its own. Or, if this saying be too far-fetched and
poetical, at the least this venerable home bore some stamp and trace
of the lives and individualities of many generations of mankind,
linked together in thought and feeling by the common bond of blood.
The young man who stood in the roadway looked long and earnestly
towards the mass of buildings that frowned upon him from the crest of
the hill, and as he looked an expression came into his face which fell
little, if at all, short of that of agony, the agony which the young
can feel at the shock of an utter and irredeemable loss. The face that
wore such evidence of trouble was a handsome one enough, though just
now all the charm of youth seemed to have faded from it. It was dark
and strong, nor was it difficult to guess that in after-life it might
become stern. The form also was shapely and athletic, though not very
tall, giving promise of more than common strength, and the bearing
that of a gentleman who had not brought himself up to the belief that
ancient blood can cover modern deficiencies of mind and manner. Such
was the outward appearance of Leonard Outram as he was then, in his
twenty-third year.
While Leonard watched and hesitated on the roadway, unable,
apparently, to make up his mind to pass those iron gates, and yet
desirous of doing so, carts and carriages began to appear hurrying
down the avenue towards him.
"I suppose that the sale is over," he muttered to himself. "Well, like
death, it is a good thing to have done with."
Then he turned to go; but hearing the crunch of wheels close at hand,
stepped back into the shadow of the gateway pillar, fearing lest he
should be recognised on the open road. A carriage came up, and, just
as it reached the gates, something being amiss with the harness, a
footman descended from the box to set it right. From where he stood
Leonard could see its occupants, the wife and daughter of a
neighbouring squire, and overhear their conversation. He knew them
well; indeed, the younger lady had been one of his favourite partners
at the county balls.
"How cheap the things went, Ida! Fancy buying that old oak sideboard
for ten pounds, and with all those Outram quarterings on it too! It is
as good as an historical document, and I am sure that it must be worth
at least fifty. I shall sell ours and put it into the dining-room. I
have coveted that sideboard for years."
The daughter sighed and answered with some asperity.
"I am so sorry for the Outrams that I should not care about the
sideboard if you had got it for twopence. What an awful smash! Just
think of the old place being bought by a Jew! Tom and Leonard are
utterly ruined, they say, not a sixpence left. I declare I nearly
cried when I saw that man selling Leonard's guns."
"Very sad indeed," answered the mother absently; "but if he is a Jew,
what does it matter? He has a title, and they say that he is
enormously rich. I expect there will be plenty going on at Outram
soon. By the way, my dear Ida, I do wish you would cure yourself of
the habit of calling young men by their Christian names--not that it
matters about these two, for we shall never see any more of them."
"I am sure I hope that we shall," said Ida defiantly, "and when we do
I shall call them by their Christian names as much as ever. You never
objected to it before the smash, and I /love/ both of them, so there!
Why did you bring me to that horrid sale? You know I did not want to
go. I shall be wretched for a week, I----" and the carriage swept on
out of hearing.
Leonard emerged from the shadow of the gateway and crossed the road
swiftly. On the further side of it he paused, and looking after the
retreating carriage said aloud, "God bless you for your kind heart,
Ida Hatherley. Good luck go with you! And now for the other business."
A hundred yards or so down the road, was a second gate of much less
imposing appearance than those which led to the Outram Hall. Leonard
passed through it and presently found himself at the door of a square
red brick house, built with no other pretensions than to those of
comfort. This was the Rectory, now tenanted by the Reverend and
Honourable James Beach, to whom the living had been presented many
years before by Leonard's father, Mr. Beach's old college friend.
Leonard rang the bell, and as its distant clamour fell upon his ears a
new fear struck him. What sort of reception would he meet with in this
house? he wondered. Hitherto his welcome had always been so cordial
that until this moment he had never doubted of it, but now
circumstances were changed. He was no longer in the position of second
son to Sir Thomas Outram of Outram Hall. He was a beggar, an outcast,
a wanderer, the son of a fraudulent bankrupt and suicide. The careless
words of the woman in the carriage had let a flood of light into his
mind, and by it he saw many things which he had never seen before. Now
he remembered a little motto that he had often heard, but the full
force of which he did not appreciate until to-day. "Friends follow
fortune," was the wording of this motto. He remembered also another
saying that had frequently been read to him in church and elsewhere,
and the origin of which precluded all doubt as to its truth:--
"Unto every one that hath shall be given, but from him that hath not
shall be taken away even that which he hath."
Now, as it chanced, Leonard, beggared as he was, had still something
left which could be taken away from him, and that something the
richest fortune which Providence can give to any man in his youth, the
love of a woman whom he also loved. The Reverend and Honourable James
Beach was blessed with a daughter, Jane by name, who had the
reputation, not undeserved, of being the most beautiful and sweetest-
natured girl that the country-side could show. Now, being dark and
fair respectively and having lived in close association since
childhood, Leonard and Jane, as might be expected from the working of
the laws of natural economy, had gravitated towards each other with
increasing speed ever since they had come to understand the
possibilities of the institution of marriage. In the end thus mutual
gravitation led to a shock and confusion of individualities which was
not without its charm; or, to put the matter more plainly, Leonard
proposed to Jane and had been accepted with many blushes and some
tears and kisses.
It was a common little romance enough, but, like everything else with
which youth and love are concerned, it had its elements of beauty.
Such affairs gain much from being the first in the series. Who is
there among us that does not adore his first love and his first poem?
And yet when we see them twenty years after!
Presently the Rectory door was opened and Leonard entered. At this
moment it occurred to him that he did not quite know why he had come.
To be altogether accurate, he knew why he had come well enough. It was
to see Jane, and arrive at an understanding with her father. Perhaps
it may be well to explain that his engagement to that young lady was
of the suppressed order. Her parents had no wish to suppress it,
indeed; for though Leonard was a younger son, it was well known that
he was destined to inherit his mother's fortune of fifty thousand
pounds more or less. Besides, Providence had decreed a delicate
constitution to his elder and only brother Thomas. But Sir Thomas
Outram, their father, was reputed to be an ambitious man who looked to
see his sons marry well, and this marriage would scarcely have been to
Leonard's advantage from the family lawyer point of view.
Therefore, when the matter came to the ears of Jane's parents, they
determined to forego the outward expression of their pride and delight
in the captive whom they owed to the bow and spear of their daughter's
loveliness, at any rate for a while, say until Leonard had taken his
degree. Often and often in the after-years did they have occasion to
bless themselves for their caution. But not the less on this account
was Leonard's position as the affianced lover of their daughter
recognised among them; indeed, the matter was no secret from anybody,
except perhaps from Sir Thomas himself. For his part, Leonard took no
pains to conceal it even from him; but the father and son met rarely,
and the estrangement between them was so complete, that the younger
man saw no advantage in speaking of a matter thus near to his heart
until there appeared to be a practical object in so doing.
The Rev. James Beach was a stout person of bland and prepossessing
appearance. Never had he looked stouter, more prepossessing, or
blander than on this particular evening when Leonard was ushered into
his presence. He was standing before the fire in his drawing-room
holding a huge and ancient silver loving-cup in both hands, and in
such a position as to give the observer the idea that he had just
drained its entire contents. In reality, it may be explained, he was
employed in searching for a hall-mark on the bottom of the goblet,
discoursing the while to his wife and children--for Jane had a brother
--upon its value and beauty. The gleam of the silver caught Leonard's
eye as he entered the room, and he recognised the cup as one of the
heirlooms of his own family.
Leonard's sudden and unlooked-for advent brought various emotions into
active play. There were four people gathered round that comfortable
fire--the rector, his wife, his son, and last, but not least, Jane
herself. Mr. Beach dropped the cup sufficiently to allow himself to
stare at his visitor along its length, for all the world as though he
were covering him with a silver blunderbuss. His wife, an active
little woman, turned round as if she moved upon wires, exclaiming,
"Good gracious, who'd have thought it?" while the son, a robust young
man of about Leonard's own age and his college companion, said "Hullo!
old fellow, well, I never expected to see /you/ here to-day!"--a
remark which, however natural it may have been, scarcely tended to set
his friend at ease.
Jane herself, a tall and beautiful girl with bright auburn hair, who
was seated on a footstool nursing her knees before the fire, and
paying very little heed to her father's lecture upon ancient plate,
did none of these things. On the contrary, she sprang up with the
utmost animation, her lips apart and her lovely face red with blushes,
or the heat of the fire, and came towards him exclaiming, "Oh,
Leonard, dear Leonard!"
Mr. Beach turned the silver blunderbuss upon his daughter and fired a
single, but most effective shot.
"Jane!" he said in a voice in which fatherly admonition and friendly
warning were happily blended.
Jane stopped in full career was though in obedience to some lesson
which momentarily she had forgotten. Then Mr. Beach, setting down the
flagon, advanced upon Leonard with an ample pitying smile and
outstretched hand.
"How are you, my dear boy, how are you?" he said. "We did not
expect--"
"To see me here under the circumstances," put in Leonard bitterly.
"Nor would you have done so, but Tom and I understood that it was only
to be a three days' sale."
"Quite right, Leonard. As first advertised the sale was for three
days, but the auctioneer found that he could not get through in the
time. The accumulations of such an ancient house as Outram Hall are
necessarily /vast/," and he waved his hand with a large gesture.
"Yes," said Leonard.
"Hum!" went on Mr. Beach, after a pause which was beginning to grow
awkward. "Doubtless you will find it a matter for congratulation that
on the whole things sold well. It is not always the case, not by any
means, for such collections as those of Outram, however interesting
and valuable they may have been to the family itself, do not often
fetch their worth at a country auction. Yes, they sold decidedly well,
thanks chiefly to the large purchases of the new owner of the estate.
This tankard, for instance, which I have bought--hem--as a slight
memento of your family, cost me ten shillings an ounce."
"Indeed!" answered Leonard coldly; "I always understood that it was
worth fifty."
Then came another pause, during which all who were present, except Mr.
Beach and himself, rose one by one and quitted the room. Jane was the
last to go, and Leonard noticed, as she passed him, that there were
tears in her eyes.
"Jane," said her father in a meaning voice when her hand was already
on the door, "you will be careful to be dressed in time for dinner,
will you not, love? You remember that young Mr. Cohen is coming, and I
should like somebody to be down to receive him."
Jane's only answer to this remark was to pass through the door and
slam it behind her. Clearly the prospect of the advent of this guest
was not agreeable to her.
"Well, Leonard," went on Mr. Beach when they were alone, in a tone
that was meant to be sympathetic but which jarred horribly on his
listener's ears, "this is a sad business, very sad. But why are you
not sitting down?"
"Because no one asked me to," said Leonard as he took a chair.
"Hem!" continued Mr. Beach; "by the way I believe that Mr. Cohen is a
friend of yours, is he not?"
"An acquaintance, not a friend," said Leonard.
"Indeed, I thought that you were at the same college."
"Yes, but I do not like him."
"Prejudice, my dear boy, prejudice. A minor sin indeed, but one
against which you must struggle. But there, there, it is natural that
you should not feel warmly about the man who will one day own Outram.
Ah! as I said, this is all very sad, but it must be a great
consolation to you to remember that when everything is settled there
will be enough, so I am told, to pay your unhappy father's debts. And
now, is there anything that I can do for you or your brother?"
Leonard reflected that whatever may have been his father's misdeeds,
and they were many and black, it should scarcely have lain in the
mouth of the Rev. James Beach, who owed nearly everything he had in
the world to his kindness, to allude to them. But he could not defend
his father's memory, it was beyond defence, and just now he must fight
for his own hand.
"Yes, Mr. Beach," he said earnestly, "you can help me very much. You
know the cruel position in which my brother and I are placed through
no fault of our own: our old home is sold, our fortunes have gone
utterly, and our honourable name is tarnished. At the present moment I
have nothing left in the world except the sum of two hundred pounds
which I had saved for a purpose of my own out of my allowance. I have
no profession and cannot even take my degree, because I am unable to
afford the expense of remaining at college."
"Black, I must say, very black," murmured Mr. Beach, rubbing his chin.
"But under these circumstances what can I do to help you? You must
trust in Providence, my boy; it never fails the deserving."
"This," answered Leonard, nervously; "you can show your confidence in
me by allowing my engagement to Jane to be proclaimed." Here Mr. Beach
waved his hand once more as though to repel some invisible force.
"One moment," continued Leonard. "I know that it seems a great deal to
ask, but listen. Although everything looks so dark, I have reliance on
myself. With the stimulus which my affection for your daughter will
give me, and knowing that in order to win her I must first put myself
in a position to support her as she should be supported, I am quite
convinced that I shall be able to surmount all difficulties by my own
efforts."
"Really, I cannot listen to such nonsense any longer," broke in Mr.
Beach angrily. "Leonard, this is nothing less than an impertinence. Of
course any understanding that may have existed between you and Jane is
quite at an end. Engagement! I heard of no engagement. I knew that
there was some boy and girl folly between you indeed, but for my part
I never gave the matter another thought."
"You seem to forget, sir," said Leonard, keeping his temper with
difficulty, "that not six months ago you and I had a long conversation
on this very subject, and decided that nothing should be said to my
father of the matter until I had taken my degree."
"I repeat that it is an impertinence," answered Mr. Beach, but with a
careful avoidance of the direct issue. "What! You, who have nothing in
the world except a name which you father has--well--tarnished--to use
your own word, you ask me for my dear daughter's hand? You are so
selfish that you wish not only to ruin her chances in life, but also
to drag her into the depths of your poverty. Leonard, I should never
have thought it of you!"
Then at last Leonard broke out.
"You do not speak the truth. I did not ask you for your daughter's
hand. I asked you for the promise of it when I should have shown
myself worthy of her. But now there is an end of that. I will go as
you bid me but before I go I will tell you the truth. You wish to use
Jane's beauty to catch this Jew with. Of her happiness you think
nothing, provided only you can secure his money. She is not a strong
character, and it is quite possible that you will succeed in your
plot, but I tell you it will not prosper. You, who owe everything to
our family, now when trouble has overtaken us, turn upon me and rob me
of the only good that was left to me. By putting an end to a
connection of which everybody knew, you stamp me still deeper into the
mire. So be it, but of this I am sure, that such conduct will meet
with a due reward, and that a time will come when you will bitterly
regret the way in which you have dealt with your daughter and treated
me in my misfortunes. Good-bye."
And Leonard turned and left the room and the Rectory. _