All these searchings for the murderers of Mr. Trumbull, and these remandings of Sam Brattle, took place in the month of September, and during that same month the energy of other men of law was very keenly at work on a widely different subject. Could Messrs. Block and Curling assure Captain Marrable that a portion of his inheritance would be saved for him, or had that graceless father of his in very truth seized upon it all? There was no shadow of doubt but that if aught was spared, it had not been spared through any delicacy on the part of the Colonel. The Colonel had gone to work, paying creditors who were clamorous against him, the moment he had got his hand upon the money, and had gone to work also gambling, and had made assignments of money, and done his very best to spend the whole. But there was a question whether a certain sum of ￡5000, which seemed to have got into the hands of a certain lady who protested that she wanted it very badly, might not be saved. Messrs. Block and Curling thought that it might, but were by no means certain. It probably might be done, if the Captain would consent to bring the matter before a jury; in which case the whole story of the father’s iniquity must, of course, be proved. Or it might be that by threatening to do this, the lady’s friends would relax their grasp on receiving a certain present out of the money.
“We would offer them ￡50, and perhaps they would take ￡500,” said Messrs. Block and Curling.
All this irritated the Captain. He was intensely averse to any law proceedings by which the story should be made public.
“I won’t pretend that it is on my father’s account,” said he to his uncle. Parson John shrugged his shoulders, and shook his head, meaning to imply that it certainly was a bad case, but that as Colonel Marrable was a Marrable, he ought to be spared, if possible. “It is on my own account,” continued the Captain, “and partly, perhaps, on that of the family. I would endure anything rather than have the filth of the transaction flooded through the newspapers. I should never be able to join my mess again if I did that.”
“Then you’d better let Block and Curling compromise and get what they can,” said Parson John, with an indifferent and provoking tone, which clearly indicated that he would regard the matter when so settled as one arranged amicably and pleasantly between all the parties. His uncle’s calmness and absence of horror at the thing that had been done was very grievous to Captain Marrable.
“Poor Wat!” the parson had once said, speaking of his wicked brother; “he never could keep two shillings together. It’s ever so long since I had to determine that nothing on earth should induce me to let him have half-a-crown. I must say that he did not take it amiss when I told him.”
“Why should he have wanted half-a-crown from you?”
“He was always one of those thirsty sandbags that swallow small drops and large alike. He got ￡10,000 out of poor Gregory about the time that you were born, and Gregory is fretting about it yet.”
“What kills me is the disgrace of it,” said the young man.
“It would be disagreeable to have it in the newspapers,” said Parson John. “And then he was such a pleasant fellow, and so handsome. I always enjoyed his society when once I had buttoned up my breeches’ pocket.”
Yet this man was a clergyman, preaching honesty and moral conduct, and living fairly well up to his preaching, too, as far as he himself was concerned! The Captain almost thought that the earth and skies should be brought together, and the clouds clap with thunder, and the mountains be riven in twain at the very mention of his father’s wickedness. But then sins committed against oneself are so much more sinful than any other sins.
The Captain had much more sympathetic listeners in Uphill Lane; not that either of the ladies there spoke severely against his father, but that they entered more cordially into his own distresses. If he could save even ￡4500 out of the wreck, the interest on the money would enable him to live at home in his regiment. If he could get ￡4000 he would do it.
“With ￡150 per annum,” he said, “I could just hold my head up and get along. I should have to give up all manner of things; but I would never cry about that.”
Then, again, he would declare that the one thing necessary for his happiness was, that he should get the whole business of the money off his mind. “If I could have it settled, and have done with it,” said he, “I should be at ease.”
“Quite right, my dear,” said the old lady. “My idea about money is this, that whether you have much or little, you should make your arrangements so that it be no matter of thought to you. Your money should be just like counters at a round game with children, and should mean nothing. It comes to that when you once get things on a proper footing.”
They thus became very intimate, the two ladies in Uphill Lane and the Captain from his uncle’s parsonage in the Lowtown; and the intimacy on his part was quite as strong with the younger as with the elder relative,—quite as strong, and no doubt more pleasant. They walked together constantly, as cousins may walk, and they discussed every turn that took place in the correspondence with Messrs. Block and Curling. Captain Marrable had come to his uncle’s house for a week or ten days, but had been pressed to remain on till this business should be concluded. His leave of absence lasted till the end of November, and might be prolonged if he intended to return to India. “Stay here till the end of November,” said Parson John. “What’s the use of spending your money at a London hotel? Only don’t fall in love with cousin Mary.” So the Captain did stay, obeying one half of his uncle’s advice, and promising obedience to the other half.
Aunt Sarah also had her fears about the falling in love, and spoke a prudent word to Mary. “Mary, dear,” she said, “you and Walter are as loving as turtle doves.”
“I do like him so much,” said Mary, boldly.
“So do I, my dear. He is a gentleman, and clever, and, upon the whole, he bears a great injury well. I like him. But I don’t think people ought to fall in love when there is a strong reason against it.”
“Certainly not, if they can help it.”
“Pshaw! That’s missish nonsense, Mary, and you know it. If a girl were to tell me she fell in love because she couldn’t help it, I should tell her that she wasn’t worth any man’s love.”
“But what’s your reason, Aunt Sarah?”
“Because it wouldn’t suit Mr. Gilmore.”
“I am not bound to suit Mr. Gilmore.”
“I don’t know about that. And then, too, it would not suit Walter himself. How could he marry a wife when he has just been robbed of all his fortune?”
“But I have not the slightest idea of falling in love with him. In spite of what I said, I do hope that I can help it. And then I feel to him just as though he were my brother. I’ve got almost to know what it would be to have a brother.”
In this Miss Lowther was probably wrong. She had now known her cousin for just a month. A month is quite long enough to realise the pleasure of a new lover, but it may be doubted whether the intimacy of a brother does not take a very much longer period for its creation.
“I think if I were you,” said Miss Marrable, after a pause, “that I would tell him about Mr. Gilmore.”
“Would you, Aunt Sarah?”
“I think I would. If he were really your brother you would tell him.”
It was probably the case, that when Miss Marrable gave this advice, her opinion of Mr. Gilmore’s success was greater than the circumstances warranted. Though there had been much said between the aunt and her niece about Mr. Gilmore and his offers, Mary had never been able quite to explain her own thoughts and feelings. She herself did not believe that she could be brought to accept him, and was now stronger in that opinion than ever. But were she to say so in language that would convince her aunt, her aunt would no doubt ask her, why then had she left the man in doubt? Though she knew that at every moment in which she had been called upon to act, she had struggled to do right, yet there hung over her a half-conviction that she had been weak, and almost selfish. Her dearest friends wrote to her and spoke to her as though she would certainly take Mr. Gilmore at last. Janet Fenwick wrote of it in her letters as of a thing almost fixed; and Aunt Sarah certainly lived as though she expected it. And yet Mary was very nearly sure that it could not be so. Would it not be better that she should write to Mr. Gilmore at once, and not wait till the expiration of the weary six months which he had specified as the time at the end of which he might renew his proposals? Had Aunt Sarah known all this,—had she been aware how very near Mary was to the writing of such a letter,—she would not probably have suggested that her ............