The Squire1 was a man who expected those of his household, and all who were in any way dependent on him, not merely to believe as he believed, but to share his conviction that whatever decision he might come to in any given set of circumstances was the right one, and that all who differed from him were, theoretically, either fools or worse. In short, he was one of that numerous class who have a firm belief in their own infallibility in all the concerns of life; and as he was an autocrat4 in his own domain5, with nobody to contradict him, it was not to be expected that his opinion of himself would become less confirmed with advancing years. When, therefore, his niece chose to impugn6 his action in a certain affair--and he now called to mind that it was not the first time she had done so--and even to imply, not by her words but by her manner, that his treatment of his grandson, or, to speak correctly, his absolute neglect of him, was both cruel and unjust, he was not, at any rate at first, so much angered as amazed at her audacity7 in daring to set up her feeble girl's will in opposition8 to his own, and, indeed, at her presumption9 in venturing to question his decision in any way.
Nor, when he came to think the matter over at his leisure, did his surprise, not unleavened with resentment10, diminish. He told himself that he could not have believed it of her; she had hurt him in a tender place, and he felt as if she could never be quite the same to him again as she had been in the past: and she never was.
It is just possible that the Squire's little smoulder of resentment against his niece would gradually have died out had he not been beset11 by a certain underlying12 consciousness, of which he vainly strove to rid himself, that all through Nell had been undeniably in the right and he indisputably in the wrong. Had he but seen his way to overlook his son's mésalliance, and have brought him and his wife to Stanbrook, in all probability Dick would still have been living. And then, with regard to this grandson of his, this child of a play-acting mother---- But when he got as far as that in his musings his passion seemed to choke him. No, he had done right, quite right; no other course was open to him. Come what might, he would never acknowledge the brat13. His blood was tainted14; he was no true Cortelyon. But all his arguing with himself did not suffice to pluck out the hidden thorn; it was still there, rankling15 in his flesh. But if he could not get rid of it, no one save himself should know of its existence, and he swore a great oath that in the matter of his grandson he would not go back from his word.
A day or two after her interview with her uncle Nell replied to Mr. McManus's letter. What she wished him to do was to inform Mr. Dare that he need be under no apprehension16 that Mr. Cortelyon would claim his grandson or interfere17 in any way with the boy's future. She further asked to be informed of the latter's address when Mr. Dare should have settled upon a home for him.
To this the old tobacconist replied in the course of a week or two. What he had to tell her was that for the present Mr. Dare had decided18 to let Evan remain at Lawn Cottage in the care of Mrs. Mardin; but that should he later think well to remove the child, Miss Baynard should be duly advised of the change.
And there for the present the matter rested.
When Squire Cortelyon found himself once more at home, he went back to his old mode of life with an added relish19. He knew now that he had just escaped a great danger. He had been led to believe that the operation he was advised to undergo was of a very simple nature, but a casual remark of the great London doctor, which he chanced to overhear, had served to open his eyes after a very uncomfortable fashion. In reality, the operation was anything but a simple one, in view of possible consequences in the case of a man of threescore years and ten. However, all is well that ends well. The dreaded20 consequences had not developed themselves. He had come back home feeling a new man, with every prospect22 of a renewed lease of life, and he smiled grimly to himself to think how "that scoundrel of a Banks"--his local medico--had succeeded in thoroughly23 hoodwinking him.
So he went back to the old familiar routine as if there had never been a break in it, save that life seemed to have taken on an added sweetness now that he knew what he had escaped. He trembled when he thought of the risk he had run, not merely in one way, but in another, for had the operation had a fatal termination he would have died intestate (he had torn up his will after his quarrel with Dick and had never made another), in which case his detested24 grandson would have been his heir-at-law and have inherited everything. It was enough to put him in a cold sweat when he thought of it. Of course, the day would come when he could no longer defer25 asking himself the question, "To whom or to what shall I leave my property?" But it was an uncomfortable question to face, and a difficult one to answer; so, as there seemed no immediate26 need for answering it, he shelved it till what he chose to term "a more convenient time."
Pleasant to him were those long forenoons in the library, with no company save that of Andry Luce, who kept his accounts, looked after his rents, and to whom he dictated27 his correspondence. Pleasant it was, with the help of Andry's sturdy arm, to stroll slowly about the grounds, watching the gardeners and laborers28 at their work, chatting with his bailiff, and giving his orders about this or the other.
Not less pleasant was it, when the fit took him, to have himself driven in his old shandrydan to one or other of his outlying properties, some of which lay many miles away, and satisfy himself that everything was going on as it should do, which meant so far as the interests of his own pocket were concerned.
But when the weather was bad, and he could not get out of doors, he had other occupations wherewith to engage his time. He was an ardent29 numismatist30, and was very proud of his collection of coins and medals, to which he kept adding from time to time as opportunity served. He was also something of a bibliophile31, and possessed32 a small but rather choice collection of rare books and illuminated33 MSS. He would gloat over these treasures as a miser34 gloats over his gold, and he derived35 the most intense satisfaction from the belief (which on no account would he have had disturbed) that his collections contained two or three absolutely unique specimens36 in the way of coins such as no other cabinet could match.
And so some months passed away, and no such person as young Evan Cortelyon might have been in existence for any mention of him between uncle and niece.
Then, as the winter crept springward, the Squire became unpleasantly conscious that his physical powers were slowly, almost imperceptibly, declining. For some little time he succeeded in persuading himself that it was a mere2 temporary faiblesse from which he was suffering, due probably, in a great measure, to the moist oppressiveness of an unhealthy season, which was carrying off numbers of younger people than he. But when, at length, the weather vane on the stables veered38 from southwest to northeast, and stuck there day after day, as if it would never move again, bringing with it dry, sunny morns, and crisp, bracing39 nights, he was obliged to seek for some other excuse for his growing weakness. Not yet, however, would he give in and summon Dr. Banks. Although the son on whom he had at one time built such hopes was dead and gone, not for years had existence been sweeter to him than it was just then, and yet, to all seeming, it was gradually but surely slipping away from him. He felt as if a great wrong were being done him. What was Providence40 about?
At length his weakness so far increased that he reluctantly authorized41 Andry to summon Dr. Banks, who had attended him, off and on, from the date of his accident, and in the course of years had extracted more guineas from his purse than the Squire cared to reckon up.
"You have been very remiss42, Mr. Cortelyon, very remiss indeed," said the fussy43 little rural practitioner44 when he had completed his brief examination, and had listened to the Squire's recital45 of his symptoms. "You ought to have sent for me six weeks ago, if not earlier than that. There has been a serious lowering of the vital forces, and, at your time of life----"
"At my time of life! Damme! what d'ye mean? You don't mean to call me an old man, and I not seventy-three till next birthday! Zounds! I'm only just in my prime. Banks, you're an ass3! It will be time enough for you to begin to hint at my age--only to hint at it, mind you--a dozen years hence."
Dr. Banks did his best, but his best in this instance proved of no avail. The diminution46 of strength still went slowly on. At length the Squire became too weak to go out of doors, even for a drive, and then after a time the day came when he was unable to leave his bedroom.
At Dr. Banks's request, that well-known physician, Dr. Mills, of Lanchester, was called into consultation47, but all he could do, after making one or two minor48 suggestions, was to accord his full approval to the treatment already adopted by his colleague.
"I won't pay you your fee, doctor--hang me if I will, sir--till you tell me what you think of me," said the Squire in his masterful way when Dr. Mills was ready to go.
"Well, Squire, to be frank with you, I think your condition a somewhat grave one. But while there's life there's hope, you know. Yes, yes, we mustn't give up hope on any account; and you could not be in better hands than those of my friend Dr. Banks."
"You would advise me to make my will, eh?" The cunning smile with which he leered up into the physician's face hid a terrible anxiety at the back of it.
The doctor pursed out his lips. "In such matters it is always advisable to be prepared, to take time by the forelock, as one may say. And in your case, Mr. Cortelyon, I am inclined to think--um--well, yes, that any testamentary arrangements you may have to make should not----"
"I understand," broke in the Squire with a wave of his hand. "Not a word more is needed. Here is your fee. I am obliged to you for your frankness; and so good-day to ye." He felt as if sentence of death had just been pronounced on him.
Yes, it was no longer possible to cheat himself with vain hopes of recovery. The dread21 fact that for him life's business was nearly over could no longer be ignored, and the sooner he clasped it to him and made himself familiar with its grim visage, the better it would be for him during the little time he could call his own. He had lately had private information from Piljoy that a certain property, on which for years he had set longing49 eyes, would be in the market before another twelvemonth was over, and yet he, Ambrose Cortelyon, would not be there to bid for it! Again he asked himself what Providence was about.
Still, however much he might rail and rebel in secret at the dark prospect before him, knowing all the while how childish and futile50 it was to do so, his hard face in nowise softened51 to those about him, and he betrayed no slackness of interest in any of the little everyday affairs that went on around him.
But another spectre, besides that grisly one which Dr. Mills's words had called up, began to haunt him, hovering52 round his pillow by night, and never being far from his elbow between daybreak and dark. There was only one way of exorcising it, as he knew full well, and that was by making his will. The entail53 had been cut off in his grandfather's time, sixty years before. How hateful soever the necessity might be, it was one which could not with safety be much longer delayed, unless he wished that all he might die worth should go to his disowned and unknown grandson. Beyond him and Nell, so far as he knew, he had not a single living relative. Whom, then, should he make his heir? For him it was fast becoming the question of questions.
Oh, it was hard, hard, while he was still in what, rightly considered, ought to be looked upon as the prime of life, to have to part from the earthly possessions he loved so well, and which had cost him such long and painful scraping to accumulate! But there was no help for it; leave them he must; the fatal fiat54 had gone forth55. At times, it may be, his heart sent forth an anguished56 cry for his dead son; but if such were the case, it in nowise served to mitigate57 the rancor58, almost inhuman59 in its bitterness, with which he regarded the dead man's child. He had spoken no more than the truth when he said that he never forgave.
It was just about this time that the Hon. Mrs. Bullivant, having heard of his illness, drove over from Uplands to see him. The Squire had never been very popular among those of his own class, and even now, when he was reported to be in failing health, there were not many callers at Stanbrook. Such as there were got no farther than the entrance hall, for in each case the Squire, on the plea of illness, excused himself from seeing them, and probably the majority of them were as well pleased that he did so. But of the Hon. Mrs. Bullivant a special exception was made. She was shown up into his bedroom, where the Squire lay in his huge four-poster, propped60 up with pillows, and there she stayed for upwards61 of an hour. For this, however, there was a reason.
Mrs. Bullivant, when known to the world as Miss Onoria Flood, the only daughter and heiress of a wealthy brewer62, was the lady chosen by Mr. Cortelyon for his son's prospective63 wife. He and Mr. Flood were neighbors, so to speak, for only a short half-dozen miles divided Uplands from Stanbrook, and when once the subject was broached--by the Squire in the first instance--they were not long in coming to a quiet understanding between themselves. Then Mr. Flood dropped a hint of what was in the wind to Onoria, who was a dutiful daughter, and at once fell in with her father's views. After that, all the Squire had to do was to recall his son from London and break the news to him. To Mr. Cortelyon the match seemed an eminently64 desirable one. Although the brewer did not come of a county family, he was most respectably connected, having one brother an archdeacon, and another high up in the service of John Company. But the great attraction of all lay in the fact that on coming of age Onoria would be entitled to a legacy65 of twenty thousand pounds bequeathed her by her grandfather. Further, she would be her father's sole heiress (he had Flood's word for that); and as the brewer was of a gouty habit and somewhat plethoric66 withal, it seemed not unlikely that---- Yes, in every way a most desirable match.
But we know what happened when Dick was told his father's goodwill67 and pleasure in the matter. However willing under other circumstances he might have been to fall in with the old man's views, he was precluded68 from doing so by the simple fact that he was already a married man. Thereupon followed the quarrel, and all that sad succession of events with which we are already acquainted.
But Onoria did not go long unwedded. Before six months had gone by she became the wife of the Hon. Hector Bullivant, the second son of Lord Cossington, an impecunious69 peer, whose estates were mortgaged up to the hilt. Neither affection nor sentiment had anything to do with the union. Onoria married for position, the Hon. Hector for money. Everybody who knew the young couple said that what followed was only what they had prophesied70 all along, so easy is it to be wise after the event.
The Hon. Hector was a notorious gambler and roué, and within a couple of years of his marriage he had contrived71 to dissipate his wife's fortune to the last guinea. A few months later he came by his end in a drunken brawl72, greatly to the relief of everybody connected with him, leaving behind him one child, a boy a little over twelve months old. Then the widow went back home to her father, taking her son with her. Not long afterwards Mr. Flood was carried off in a fit of apoplexy.
When his will was read it was a terrible disappointment to Onoria to find that, instead of coming in for everything, as she had all along been led to expect she would, she was merely left an income of six hundred a year, together with the Uplands estate, and that everything else was left in trust for her son. She had known that her father was not likely to be a long liver, and, backed up by his wealth, she had looked forward to a brilliant rentrée into London society at no very distant date, with, it may be, a second and more brilliant marriage in the background. It was, indeed, a terrible disappointment.
Mrs. Bullivant at this period of her life was what is generally understood by the term "a fine woman," that is to say, she was built on ample lines, and was of generous proportions. Later on she would tend to obesity73. She was black-eyed and black-haired, with regular features of a cold, statuesque type, which, as she was essentially74 unemotional and a thorough specimen37 of ingrained selfishness, formed a fair enough index to her disposition75.
Such was the woman who came one day to see Squire Cortelyon on what she had been given to understand was likely to be his death-bed. As a matter of course, she knew of the quarrel between father and son, of Dick's untimely death, and of his having left a widow and a child whom the old man refused to acknowledge or to recognize in any way. She and the Squire had not met since a little while before her marriage; still, it seemed only what was due to good feeling and neighborly sympathy, more especially in view of what had happened in the past, that she should be desirous of seeing him once again before it was too late. If there was any other motive76, or half-motive, at work below the surface, she would hardly have confessed its existence even to herself.
As already stated, the interview between her and the Squire lasted over an hour. By the time it came to an end the sick man was pretty well exhausted77; still, he was glad, he was very glad, that he had seen her. Her visit had supplied him with a ray of light where all had been darkness before. She was a woman after his own heart--energetic, capable, a man as regarded business ability, of a like saving disposition and with an ambition similar to his own; that is to say, to become a great landed proprietor78, or rather, that her son should become one when he grew up and came into his inheritance. He did not think that Flood had treated her as handsomely as he ought to have done. Still, Uplands was hers--a fine property, and one which could not have come into more capable hands.
Had the fates proved propitious79, Onoria would have been his daughter-in-law; it was owing to no fault of hers that she was not; consequently she might, in a sense, be said to have a claim upon him. Why should he not leave her a life-interest in his landed property, the same, at her decease, to devolve upon her son, on condition of his adding the name of Cortelyon to his present one? But it was a project not to be hastily decided upon. He would think it over. And he did.
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1
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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autocrat
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| n.独裁者；专横的人 | |
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domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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impugn
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| v.指责，对…表示怀疑 | |
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audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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underlying
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| adj.在下面的，含蓄的，潜在的 | |
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brat
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| n.孩子；顽童 | |
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tainted
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| adj.腐坏的；污染的；沾污的；感染的v.使变质( taint的过去式和过去分词 )；使污染；败坏；被污染，腐坏，败坏 | |
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rankling
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| v.（使）痛苦不已，（使）怨恨不已( rankle的现在分词 ) | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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defer
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| vt.推迟，拖延；vi.(to)遵从，听从，服从 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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laborers
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| n.体力劳动者，工人( laborer的名词复数 )；（熟练工人的）辅助工 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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numismatist
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| n.钱币收藏家 | |
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bibliophile
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| n.爱书者；藏书家 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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miser
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| n.守财奴，吝啬鬼 (adj.miserly) | |
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derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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veered
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| v.（尤指交通工具）改变方向或路线( veer的过去式和过去分词 )；（指谈话内容、人的行为或观点）突然改变；（指风） （在北半球按顺时针方向、在南半球按逆时针方向）逐渐转向；风向顺时针转 | |
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bracing
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| adj.令人振奋的 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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authorized
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| a.委任的，许可的 | |
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remiss
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| adj.不小心的，马虎 | |
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fussy
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| adj.为琐事担忧的，过分装饰的，爱挑剔的 | |
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practitioner
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| n.实践者，从事者；(医生或律师等)开业者 | |
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recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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diminution
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| n.减少；变小 | |
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consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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entail
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| vt.使承担，使成为必要，需要 | |
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fiat
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| n.命令，法令，批准；vt.批准，颁布 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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anguished
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| adj.极其痛苦的v.使极度痛苦(anguish的过去式) | |
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mitigate
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| vt.（使）减轻，（使）缓和 | |
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rancor
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| n.深仇，积怨 | |
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inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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brewer
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| n. 啤酒制造者 | |
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prospective
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| adj.预期的，未来的，前瞻性的 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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plethoric
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| adj.过多的，多血症的 | |
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goodwill
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| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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68
precluded
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| v.阻止( preclude的过去式和过去分词 )；排除；妨碍；使…行不通 | |
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impecunious
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| adj.不名一文的，贫穷的 | |
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prophesied
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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72
brawl
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| n.大声争吵，喧嚷；v.吵架，对骂 | |
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obesity
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| n.肥胖，肥大 | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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propitious
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| adj.吉利的；顺利的 | |
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