While Leonard watched and hesitated on the roadway, unable, apparently,to make up his mind to pass those iron gates, and yet desirous of doingso, carts and carriages began to appear hurrying down the avenue towardshim.
"I suppose that the sale is over," he muttered to himself. "Well, likedeath, 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 heshould be recognised on the open road. A carriage came up, and, just asit reached the gates, something being amiss with the harness, a footmandescended from the box to set it right. From where he stood Leonardcould see its occupants, the wife and daughter of a neighbouring squire,and overhear their conversation. He knew them well; indeed, the youngerlady had been one of his favourite partners at the county balls.
"How cheap the things went, Ida! Fancy buying that old oak sideboard forten pounds, and with all those Outram quarterings on it too! It is asgood as an historical document, and I am sure that it must be worth atleast fifty. I shall sell ours and put it into the dining-room. I havecoveted 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 thesideboard if you had got it for twopence. What an awful smash! Justthink of the old place being bought by a Jew! Tom and Leonard areutterly ruined, they say, not a sixpence left. I declare I nearly criedwhen 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 enormouslyrich. 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 callingyoung 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 doI shall call them by their Christian names as much as ever. You neverobjected 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 ofhearing.
Leonard emerged from the shadow of the gateway and crossed the roadswiftly. On the further side of it he paused, and looking after theretreating carriage said aloud, "God bless you for your kind heart, IdaHatherley. 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 lessimposing appearance than those which led to the Outram Hall. Leonardpassed through it and presently found himself at the door of a squarered brick house, built with no other pretensions than to those ofcomfort. This was the Rectory, now tenanted by the Reverend andHonourable James Beach, to whom the living had been presented many yearsbefore by Leonard's father, Mr. Beach's old college friend.
Leonard rang the bell, and as its distant clamour fell upon his ears anew fear struck him. What sort of reception would he meet with in thishouse? he wondered. Hitherto his welcome had always been so cordial thatuntil this moment he had never doubted of it, but now circumstances werechanged. He was no longer in the position of second son to Sir ThomasOutram of Outram Hall. He was a beggar, an outcast, a wanderer, the sonof a fraudulent bankrupt and suicide. The careless words of the womanin the carriage had let a flood of light into his mind, and by it he sawmany things which he had never seen before. Now he remembered a littlemotto that he had often heard, but the full force of which he did notappreciate until to-day. "Friends follow fortune," was the wording ofthis motto. He remembered also another saying that had frequently beenread to him in church and elsewhere, and the origin of which precludedall doubt as to its truth:--
"Unto every one that hath shall be given, but from him that hath notshall be taken away even that which he hath."
Now, as it chanced, Leonard, beggared as he was, had still somethingleft which could be taken away from him, and that something the richestfortune which Providence can give to any man in his youth, the love ofa woman whom he also loved. The Reverend and Honourable James Beachwas blessed with a daughter, Jane by name, who had the reputation, notundeserved, of being the most beautiful and sweetest-natured girl thatthe country-side could show. Now, being dark and fair respectively andhaving lived in close association since childhood, Leonard and Jane, asmight be expected from the working of the laws of natural economy, hadgravitated towards each other with increasing speed ever since they hadcome to understand the possibilities of the institution of marriage.In the end thus mutual gravitation led to a shock and confusion ofindividualities which was not without its charm; or, to put the mattermore plainly, Leonard proposed to Jane and had been accepted with manyblushes and some tears and kisses.
It was a common little romance enough, but, like everything else withwhich youth and love are concerned, it had its elements of beauty. Suchaffairs gain much from being the first in the series. Who is there amongus that does not adore his first love and his first poem? And yet whenwe see them twenty years after!
Presently the Rectory door was opened and Leonard entered. At thismoment it occurred to him that he did not quite know why he had come. Tobe altogether accurate, he knew why he had come well enough. It was tosee Jane, and arrive at an understanding with her father. Perhaps itmay be well to explain that his engagement to that young lady was of thesuppressed order. Her parents had no wish to suppress it, indeed; forthough Leonard was a younger son, it was well known that he was destinedto inherit his mother's fortune of fifty thousand pounds more or less.Besides, Providence had decreed a delicate constitution to his elder andonly brother Thomas. But Sir Thomas Outram, their father, was reputedto be an ambitious man who looked to see his sons marry well, and thismarriage would scarcely have been to Leonard's advantage from the familylawyer point of view.
Therefore, when the matter came to the ears of Jane's parents, theydetermined to forego the outward expression of their pride and delightin the captive whom they owed to the bow and spear of their daughter'sloveliness, at any rate for a while, say until Leonard had taken hisdegree. Often and often in the after-years did they have occasion tobless themselves for their caution. But not the less on this account wasLeonard's position as the affianced lover of their daughter recognisedamong them; indeed, the matter was no secret from anybody, exceptperhaps from Sir Thomas himself. For his part, Leonard took no painsto conceal it even from him; but the father and son met rarely, and theestrangement between them was so complete, that the younger man saw noadvantage in speaking of a matter thus near to his heart until thereappeared to be a practical object in so doing.
The Rev. James Beach was a stout person of bland and prepossessingappearance. Never had he looked stouter, more prepossessing, or blanderthan on this particular evening when Leonard was ushered into hispresence. He was standing before the fire in his drawing-room holding ahuge and ancient silver loving-cup in both hands, and in such a positionas to give the observer the idea that he had just drained its entirecontents. In reality, it may be explained, he was employed in searchingfor a hall-mark on the bottom of the goblet, discoursing the whileto his wife and children--for Jane had a brother--upon its value andbeauty. The gleam of the silver caught Leonard's eye as he enteredthe room, and he recognised the cup as one of the heirlooms of his ownfamily.
Leonard's sudden and unlooked-for advent brought various emotions intoactive play. There were four people gathered round that comfortablefire--the rector, his wife, his son, and last, but not least, Janeherself. Mr. Beach dropped the cup sufficiently to allow himself tostare at his visitor along its length, for all the world as though hewere covering him with a silver blunderbuss. His wife, an active littlewoman, turned round as if she moved upon wires, exclaiming, "Goodgracious, who'd have thought it?" while the son, a robust young manof about Leonard's own age and his college companion, said "Hullo! oldfellow, well, I never expected to see _you_ here to-day!"--a remarkwhich, however natural it may have been, s
carcely tended to set hisfriend at ease.
Jane herself, a tall and beautiful girl with bright auburn hair, who wasseated on a footstool nursing her knees before the fire, and payingvery little heed to her father's lecture upon ancient plate, did none ofthese 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 thefire, and came towards him exclaiming, "Oh, Leonard, dear Leonard!"
Mr. Beach turned the silver blunderbuss upon his daughter and fired asingle, but most effective shot.
"Jane!" he said in a voice in which fatherly admonition and friendlywarning were happily blended.
Jane stopped in full career was though in obedience to some lesson whichmomentarily 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. "Norwould you have done so, but Tom and I understood that it was only to bea 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. Theaccumulations 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 growawkward. "Doubtless you will find it a matter for congratulation that onthe whole things sold well. It is not always the case, not by anymeans, for such collections as those of Outram, however interesting andvaluable they may have been to the family itself, do not often fetchtheir worth at a country auction. Yes, they sold decidedly well, thankschiefly to the large purchases of the new owner of the estate. Thistankard, for instance, which I have bought--hem--as a slight memento ofyour family, cost me ten shillings an ounce."
"Indeed!" answered Leonard coldly; "I always understood that it wasworth 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 thelast to go, and Leonard noticed, as she passed him, that there weretears in her eyes.
"Jane," said her father in a meaning voice when her hand was already onthe door, "you will be careful to be dressed in time for dinner, willyou not, love? You remember that young Mr. Cohen is coming, and I shouldlike somebody to be down to receive him."
Jane's only answer to this remark was to pass through the door and slamit behind her. Clearly the prospect of the advent of this guest was notagreeable to her.
"Well, Leonard," went on Mr. Beach when they were alone, in a tone thatwas meant to be sympathetic but which jarred horribly on his listener'sears, "this is a sad business, very sad. But why are you not sittingdown?"
"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 afriend 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 againstwhich you must struggle. But there, there, it is natural that you shouldnot feel warmly about the man who will one day own Outram. Ah! as Isaid, this is all very sad, but it must be a great consolation to you toremember that when everything is settled there will be enough, so I amtold, to pay your unhappy father's debts. And now, is there anythingthat I can do for you or your brother?"
Leonard reflected that whatever may have been his father's misdeeds, andthey were many and black, it should scarcely have lain in the mouth ofthe Rev. James Beach, who owed nearly everything he had in the world tohis kindness, to allude to them. But he could not defend his father'smemory, it was beyond defence, and just now he must fight for his ownhand.
"Yes, Mr. Beach," he said earnestly, "you can help me very much. Youknow the cruel position in which my brother and I are placed through nofault of our own: our old home is sold, our fortunes have gone utterly,and our honourable name is tarnished. At the present moment I havenothing left in the world except the sum of two hundred pounds whichI had saved for a purpose of my own out of my allowance. I have noprofession and cannot even take my degree, because I am unable to affordthe 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 trustin Providence, my boy; it never fails the deserving."
"This," answered Leonard, nervously; "you can show your confidence inme by allowing my engagement to Jane to be proclaimed." Here Mr. Beachwaved his hand once more as though to repel some invisible force.
"One moment," continued Leonard. "I know that it seems a great deal toask, but listen. Although everything looks so dark, I have reliance onmyself. With the stimulus which my affection for your daughter will giveme, and knowing that in order to win her I must first put myself in aposition to support her as she should be supported, I am quite convincedthat 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. Ofcourse any understanding that may have existed between you and Jane isquite at an end. Engagement! I heard of no engagement. I knew that therewas some boy and girl folly between you indeed, but for my part I nevergave the matter another thought."
"You seem to forget, sir," said Leonard, keeping his temper withdifficulty, "that not six months ago you and I had a long conversationon this very subject, and decided that nothing should be said to myfather of the matter until I had taken my degree."
"I repeat that it is an impertinence," answered Mr. Beach, but with acareful avoidance of the direct issue. "What! You, who have nothing inthe world except a name which you father has--well--tarnished--touse your own word, you ask me for my dear daughter's hand? You are soselfish that you wish not only to ruin her chances in life, but also todrag her into the depths of your poverty. Leonard, I should never havethought 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 worthyof her. But now there is an end of that. I will go as you bid me butbefore I go I will tell you the truth. You wish to use Jane's beauty tocatch this Jew with. Of her happiness you think nothing, provided onlyyou can secure his money. She is not a strong character, and it is quitepossible that you will succeed in your plot, but I tell you it will notprosper. You, who owe everything to our family, now when trouble hasovertaken us, turn upon me and rob me of the only good that was left tome. By putting an end to a connection of which everybody knew, you stampme still deeper into the mire. So be it, but of this I am sure, thatsuch conduct will meet with a due reward, and that a time will comewhen you will bitterly regret the way in which you have dealt with yourdaughter and treated me in my misfortunes. Good-bye."
And Leonard turned and left the room and the Rectory.