‘His house the seat of wealth shall be, An inexhausted treasury; His justice, free from all decay, Shall blessings to his heirs convey.’
And Ethel, within herself, hoped it was no disrespect to smile at his having so unconsciously turned away the blessing from the father’s to the mother’s side.
It was his great pride and pleasure that so many of Maggie’s children were round him to do honour to her old friend’s burial—three sons, and four daughters, and three sons-in-law. They all stood round the grave, as near as might be to the stone that Gertrude, as a child, had laid under his care, when his silver hair had mingled with her golden locks; and with them was a concourse that evidently impressed the nephew with a new idea of the estimation in which his uncle had been held.
Tom had travelled all night, and had arrived only just in time. Nobody was able to say a word to him before setting off; and almost immediately after the return, Sir Matthew Fleet seized upon him to walk up to the station with him, and, to the infinite disgust of the nephew, the reading of the will was thus delayed until the executor came back, extremely grave and thoughtful.
After all, Mr. Spencer had no available grievance. His uncle’s property was very little altogether, amounting scarcely to a thousand pounds, but the bulk was bequeathed to the nephew; to Aubrey May was left his watch, and a piece of plate presented to him on his leaving India; to Dr. May a few books; to Tom the chief of his library, his papers, notes, and instruments, and the manuscript of a work upon diseases connected with climate, on which he had been engaged for many years, but had never succeeded in polishing to his own fastidious satisfaction, or in coming to the end of new discoveries. To Etheldred, his only legacy was his writing-desk, with all its contents. And Mr. Spencer looked so suspicious of those contents, that Tom made her open it before him, and show that they were nothing but letters.
It had been a morning of the mixture of feelings and restless bustle, so apt to take place where the affection is not explained by relationship; and when the strangers were gone, and the family were once again alone, there was a drawing of freer breath, and the Doctor threw himself back in his chair, and indulged in a long, heavy sigh, with a weary sound in it.
‘Can I go anywhere for you, father?’ said Tom, turning to him with a kind and respectful manner.
‘Oh no—no, thank you,’ he said, rousing himself, and laying his hand on the bell, ‘I must go over to Overfield; but I shall be glad of the drive. Well, Dr. Tom, what did you say to Fleet’s proposal?’
‘I said I would come up to town and settle about it when I had got through this executor business.’
‘You always were a lucky fellow, Tom,’ said Dr. May, trying to be interested and sympathetic. ‘You would not wish for anything better.’
‘I don’t know, I have not had time to think about it yet,’ said Tom, pulling off his spectacles and pushing back his hair, with an action of sadness and fatigue.
‘Ah! it was not the best of times to choose for the communication; but it was kindly meant. I never expected to see Fleet take so much trouble for any one. But you are done up, Tom, with your night journey.’
‘Not at all,’ he answered, briskly, ‘if I can do anything for you. Could not I go down to the hospital?’
‘Why, if I were not to be back till five,’ began Dr. May, considering, and calling him into the hall to receive directions, from which he came back, saying, ‘There! now then, Ethel, we had better look over things, and get them in train.’
‘You are so tired, Tom.’
‘Not too much for that,’ he said. But it was a vain boast; he was too much fatigued to turn his mind to business requiring thought, though capable of slow, languid reading and sorting of papers.
Aubrey’s legacy was discovered with much difficulty. In fact, it had never been heard of, nor seen the light, since its presentation, and was at last found in a lumber closet, in a strong box, in Indian packing. It was a compromise between an epergne and a candelabrum, growing out of the howdah of an unfortunate elephant, pinning one tiger to the ground, and with another hanging on behind, in the midst of a jungle of palm-trees and cobras; and beneath was an elaborate inscription, so laudatory of Aubrey Spencer, M. D., that nobody wondered he had never unpacked it, and that it was yellow with tarnish—the only marvel was, that he had never disposed of it; but that it was likely to wait for the days when Aubrey might be a general and own a side-board.
The other bequests were far more appreciated. Tom had known of the book in hand, was certain of its value to the faculty, and was much gratified by the charge of it, both as a matter of feeling and of interest. But while he looked over and sorted the mass of curious notes, his attention was far more set on the desk, that reverently, almost timidly, Ethel examined, well knowing why she had been selected as the depositary of these relics. There they were, some embrowned by a burn in the corner, as though there had been an attempt to destroy them, in which there had been no heart to persevere. It was but little, after all, two formal notes in which Professor Norman Mackenzie asked the honour of Mr. Spencer’s company to dinner, but in handwriting that was none of the professor’s—writing better known to Ethel than to Tom—and a series of their father’s letters, from their first separation till the traveller’s own silence had caused their correspondence to drop. Charming letters they were, such as people wrote before the penny-post had spoilt the epistolary art—long, minute, and overflowing with brilliant happiness. Several of them were urgent invitations to Stoneborough, and one of these was finished in that other hand—the delicate, well-rounded writing that would not be inherited—entreating Dr. Spencer to give a few days to Stoneborough, ‘it would be such a pleasure to Richard to show him the children.’
Ethel did not feel sure whether to see these would give pain or pleasure to her father. He would certainly be grieved to see how much suffering he must have inflicted in the innocence of his heart, and in the glory of his happiness; and Tom, with a sort of shudder, advised her to keep them to herself, he was sure they would give nothing but pain.
She had no choice just then, for it was a time of unusual occupation, and the difference made by their loss told immediately—the more, perhaps, because it was the beginning of November, and there was much municipal business to be attended to.
However it might be for the future, during the ensuing week Dr. May never came in for a meal with the rest of the family; was too much fagged for anything but sleep when he came home at night; and on the Sunday morning, when they all had reckoned on going to Cocksmoor together, he was obliged to give it up, and only come into the Minster at the end of the prayers. Every one knew that he was not a good manager of his time, and this made things worse; and he declared that he should make arrangements for being less taken up; but it was sad to see him overburthened, and Tom, as only a casual visitor, could do little to lessen his toil, though that little was done readily and attentively. There were no rubs between the two, and scarcely any conversation. Tom would not discuss his prospects; and it was not clear whether he meant to avail himself of Sir Matthew’s patronage; he committed himself to nothing but his wish that it were possible to stay in Paris; and he avoided even talking to his sister.
Not till a week after he had left home for London came a letter
‘Dear Ethel,
‘I have told Fleet that I am convinced of my only right course. I could never get the book finished properly if I got into his line, and I must have peaceable evenings for it at home. I suppose my father would not like to let Dr. Spencer’s house. If I might have it, and keep my own hours and habits, I think it would conduce to our working better together. I am afraid I kept you in needless distress about him, but I wanted to judge for myself of the necessity, and to think over the resignation of that quest. I must commit it to Brown. I hope it is not too great a risk; but it can’t be helped. It is a matter of course that I should come home now the helper is gone; I always knew it would come to that. Manage it as quietly as you can. I must go to Paris for a fortnight, to bring home my things, and by that time my father had better get me appointed to the hospital.