Chapter Twenty Five
A Turn of the Wheel
“This changing, and great variance
Of earthly states, up and down,
Is not but casualty and chance
(As some men say is without ressown).”
Robert Henrysoun.
It did “pass off” again. The next day Mr Western seemed nearly as well as usual, though to Mary’s eyes there was a tired and unrestful expression on his face with which she could not feel familiar.
“He is not looking well. He does not seem like his old self, I am certain,” she said in her own mind over and over again. But what could be done? He declared there was nothing really wrong; the very mention of sending for Mr Brandreth irritated him unaccountably, and he was most urgent with Mary to say nothing to arouse her mother’s anxiety. So the utmost Mary could do was to please him in all the small ways ready affection can always suggest, to exert herself to be even more cheerful and entertaining than her wont.
She wrote to Lilias, begging her to let most of her letters be to her father, and urging upon her the desirability of meeting with all possible cordiality Mrs Brabazon’s friendly overtures. But for some days Lilias had nothing more to tell of the new-found cousins.
A week passed, a week of pretty hard work for Mary. What with “the children’s” extra calls upon her patience and attention, her anxiety about her father, and unusual efforts to seem cheerful and light-hearted, its close found her really tired and dispirited.
“Far more tired than with nursing Alys,” she said to herself, when on Saturday afternoon she was taking Brooke and Francie a walk, thankful to know that the more troublesome members of her charge were safely disposed of for the rest of the day in a holiday expedition to old Mr Halkin’s farm. “That was play compared with the worry and fret of the last few days. And why should I feel it so? There is something not right about me just now. I am changed, though I blame the children. I have grown captious and discontented. I do believe that fortnight at the farm spoiled me – the being thanked and praised for everything I did. What a silly goose I am, after all! How I do wish I could hear how Alys is – I do think she might write again, but I suppose it is my own doing,” with a little sigh.
For two or three pencilled words from Miss Cheviott, saying merely that they had got safe to Romary, that she had borne the drive pretty well, but was woefully dull without Mary, were all the news Mary had had of her late patient.
Her thoughts were interrupted by little Francie. She had been running on in front of her brother, but turning suddenly, fled back to Mary in alarm.
“What’s the matter, dear?” her sister exclaimed, for the child was white and trembling.
“A horse,” whispered Francie, “another naughty horse coming so fast, Mary, and it makes me think of that dedful day.”
Francie’s fears had exaggerated facts. The horse, coming up behind them on the soft turf at the side of the path, which deadened the sound of its approach, was proceeding at an ordinary pace, which slackened somewhat when its rider caught sight of the little party in front of him. Slackened, but that was all. Mr Cheviott, for it was he, passed them at a gentle trot, just lifting his hat to Mary as he did so. Mary’s face flushed as she bowed in return.
“I do think,” she said to herself, “as we are not to be friends, it would be much better taste for him not to come our way at all. It will annoy poor father exceedingly, in his nervous state, to hear of Mr Cheviott almost, as it were, passing our door. But, of course, he may have business at the farm.”
And she called to Brooke and Francie, volunteering to tell them a story, and tried her best bravely to force her mind away from the sore subject. But a surprise was in store for her.
More than an hour later, when she and the children were close to the Rectory gate on their return home, little Brooke, who was of an observant turn of mind, called her attention to some fresh hoof marks on the gravel drive.
“See, Mary,” he said, “some one’s been here since we came out. I wonder if it was that horse we met, that the gentleman belonged to that bowed to you?”
“That belonged to the gentleman, you mean,” said Mary, laughing in spite of herself. “Oh! no, I am sure it has not been he, Brooke dear.”
But Mary was wrong. Her mother met her at the door, her face bright and interested, her hands filled with some lovely flowers.
“Mr Cheviott has been here,” she said, eagerly, “and it has done your father so much good. He stayed fully half an hour with him, and talked so pleasantly, your father says, and he brought these flowers for you from his sister with a note. What a pity you were out!”
“I dare say it was quite as well,” said Mary, calmly. “Papa has had him all to himself, and he enjoys a quiet talk with one person alone just now. I am really very glad Mr Cheviott called, as it has pleased papa.”
And in her heart she could not deny that this was behaving with “something like” generosity!
Alys’s note was but a few words – she was not yet allowed to write more, she said – but few as they were, the words were full of affection and gratitude. The London doctor had not yet been, but was expected next week. In the mean time she had to lie perfectly still, and it was rather dull, though “poor Laurence” did his best. And she ended by hoping that Mary would think of her while arranging the flowers. Mary certainly did so – and with feelings of increased affection, not unmingled however with the pain of the old vague self-reproach.
For some days Mr Western seemed quite to have recovered his usual strength and spirits, and Mary was glad to be able to write cheerfully to Lilias, who had been threatening a premature return home, had the news thence not improved.
“Papa is better,” she announced to Mrs Greville, two days after their arrival at Hastings, when the afternoon post brought Mary’s letter.
“It seems to me,” she went on, after receiving Mrs Greville’s congratulations on the good accounts, – “it seems to me that it is far more his spirits than anything else that are affected.”
“But at his age that is not a good sign,” said Mrs Greville.
“I suppose not,” said Lilias, thoughtfully. “Mary says he has begun to think and speak so anxiously about our future in case of anything happening to him.”
“Ah, yes,” said Mr Greville, complacently, “that’s the worst of a large family.”
“The worst and the best too,” said Lilias. “If papa’s health did break down he would have us all to work for him.”
Mr Greville smiled – a not unkindly but somewhat dubious smile.
“Easier said than done, my dear girl,” he said. He rather liked to provoke Lilias into a battle of words, she grew so eager and looked so pretty when she got excited; he would not have objected to a daughter, or even a couple of daughters like her, though the bare thought of all the younger Westerns in the overflowing Rectory made him shiver.
But before Lilias had time to take up her weapons there occurred a sudden diversion. A ring at the front door bell, which, while talking they had not noticed, was followed by the announcement, by Mrs Greville’s maid, that a lady was asking for Miss Western.
“A lady for Miss Western,” repeated Mrs Greville. “Show her in then, Miller, at once.”
But the lady, it appeared, declined to be “shown in.” She had begged that Miss Western would speak to her for a moment in the hall, not feeling sure that there might not be some mistake.
“What a queer message,” said Mrs Greville. “Take care, Lilias; it is probably some begging person.”
“No,” said Lilias, with a sudden inspiration, as she turned to leave the room, “I don’t think it is. I do believe it is Mrs Brabazon.”
Her intuition was correct. Mrs Brabazon it proved to be. Mrs Brabazon on foot, with none of the apanage of the Brooke wealth about her except her richly comfortable attire and general air of prosperity and well-being. Only her kindly eyes had a somewhat careworn expression, and there were lines in her face which told of past and present anxiety. She received Lilias with cordiality almost approaching affection.
“I am so glad it is you,” she said as she shook hands with Lilias. “I was so afraid it might be some other Miss Western, though the name is uncommon, not like Weston. Do you know what I did? Fancy anything so stupid! I lost your address, which you remember I noted down on a bit of paper in Dr – ’s waiting-room. I could not remember the name of the friends you were staying with, and of course hunting for you in all the hotels in London would have been like looking for a needle in a haystack. And I have so little time, I am always so hurried to get back to Anselm when I am out. It was not till the day before we left town that it occurred to me to try to trace you through Dr – , and when I went to his house for the purpose, he was off to the country! Oh! you don’t know how vexed I was.”
“And how did you find me out here?” asked Lilias, a little bewildered by Mrs Brabazon’s unconcealed eagerness to prosecute the acquaintance so unexpectedly begun.
“By the local paper – the visitor’s guide, or whatever they call it. Of course I was not looking for you, I had no reason to suppose you were here; but the moment I saw the name Western I felt sure it must be you, and Anselm felt sure that Greville was the name of your friends. It really seems quite – what people call providential, though, somehow, I never like using the expression in that way.”
“And how is your nephew – young Mr Brooke?” said Lilias.
Mrs Brabazon shook her head.
“It is Basil over again – ah, it is heart-breaking work,” she said, sadly. “But I forget, I am speaking to you as if you knew all about us.”
“Somehow I feel as if I did,” said Lilias, “the familiar names – one of my brothers is Basil, and another Anselm Brooke, but we call him Brooke always.”
“And which is Basil?”
“The eldest,” said Lilias. “He has got a berth, as he calls it, in an office in the city. It is a good opening, I believe, and he will probably be sent out to India in a year or two. But in the mean time, of course, he gets very little, and – and it keeps us very strait at home,” she added, with a smile.
Mrs Brabazon listened with unfeigned interest.
“I must hear all about them,” she said. “But not today. And I am keeping you out here in the passage all this time.”
“That is my fault,” said Lilias. “Won’t you come in? I know Mrs Greville would be pleased to see you.” (A thoroughly true assertion, as Mrs Greville was already on the verge of that peculiar phase of ennui so apt to seize on active practical people when away from “home” and its duties, stranded in a strange place where they know no one, and never go out without the consciousness of the terrible word “visitors” branded on their foreheads.)
“Not to-day, thank you, my dear. I must run home,” said Mrs Brabazon. “But tell me what day will you spend with us? Can you come to-morrow? We are at the – .”
Lilias might have hesitated to accept too readily the invitation, however cordial, of the rich relations who for so many long years had ignored Margaret Western and her children; but the influence of Mary’s earnest advice was too strong upon her to make her dream of holding back. Besides, it was impossible to look in Mrs Brabazon’s face and doubt her good intentions.
“Thank you,” the girl replied. “I should like to come very much. But I think I must return here early, the evenings are so dull for Mr and Mrs Greville.”
“Of course,” said Mrs Brabazon. “And Anselm is always so tired in the evening. The day-time is the best for us. I will send the carriage for you at half-past twelve – will that do? – and it shall bring you back again at four or five, or any time you like. Possibly Anselm may be going a drive, and would come round this way for you. And pray apologise to Mrs Greville for my unceremonious behaviour.”
“Thank you,” said Lilias. “Yes, that will suit me perfectly. I shall be ready at half-past twelve.”
“Good-bye, then, for the present. I shall have a great deal to talk to you about to-morrow. I want to hear everything about your brothers and sisters and everybody,” said Mrs Brabazon, as she shook hands in farewell.
Lilias went back to the drawing-room to tell her surprising news to her friends. Mrs Greville was full of interest and excitement, Mr Greville somewhat inclined to question the advisability of this sudden friendship.
“Have you ever heard your mother speak of this Mrs Brabazon? Are you quite sure she is what she represents herself to be?” he said, doubtfully.
Lilias smiled.
“Oh, yes,” she replied. “I am quite sure of that. Mamma remembered Mrs Brabazon by name. She was a Miss Brooke, and her father and my grandfather were first cousins. These Brookes are the elder branch.”
“But who are they? – I mean, how many are there of them?” asked Mrs Greville. “Why is Mrs Brabazon always with them?”
“The mother is dead, I am sure of that,” said Lilias, “and I think Mrs Brabazon has kept house for Mr Brooke since her death. It was Mary that told us all we knew, and she heard it from some ladies she met at your house.”
“Of course,” exclaimed Mrs Greville, in a tone of relief, “the Morpeths – you remember, Charles? Oh, yes, of course, it is all right. Frances Morpeth was always saying how nice Mrs Brabazon was. I am sure you are quite right to cultivate the acquaintance, Lilias. Don’t you agree with me, Mr Greville?”
“I suppose so,” said Mr Greville, lazily. “But I hope the cultivation of it will not absorb you altogether, Lilias. It would be wretchedly dull in these stupid lodgings without you, my dear, to argue with and contradict, and look at.”
“You need not be afraid. I am not going to desert you,” said Lilias, laughing, as she left the room.
“That girl really grows prettier and prettier,” said Mr Greville. “She is much more amusing, too, than her sister Mary. I fancy Mary is something of a prig; there was no getting a smile out of her the last time she was over with us. Lilias is brighter than ever I knew her, full of fun and pleased with everything.”
“She is very nice,” agreed Mrs Greville. “But they are both very nice. I am not at all sure but that it is Mary who has the lion’s share of the work at home. How pleased I shall be if anything comes of these new relations.”
“Umph,” said Mr Greville.
“Mr Brooke’s carriage” came for Miss Western at half past twelve. Whether “Mr Brooke” referred to the young man she had already seen, or to a father whom she had as yet heard nothing of, Lilias felt in some doubt. But before the day was over Mrs Brabazon’s extreme communicativeness had put her in full possession of the family history past and present, and had, besides, suggested hints which made the poor girl giddy with surprise and bewilderment, and an utterly novel sense of perplexity.
“I must consult some one,” she said to herself, when she got back to Mrs Greville’s lodgings. “I feel too confused and amazed to decide what to do. I had better tell the Grevilles, they are sensible and kind and really interested in us, and they will advise me as to whether I should write home about what I have heard.”
So to Mrs Greville’s inquiries as to how she had got on, what she had heard, etc, etc, Lilias was very ready to give most comprehensive answers.
“I got on very well indeed, thank you,” she said. “They were as cordial and kind as possible. Mr Brooke, Anselm’s father, is to be down here on Friday, and Mrs Brabazon wants me to spend Saturday with them to see him, and what’s more, she made me write from the hotel to Basil, to ask him to come to them from Saturday to Monday if he can get off, which I am sure he can. She told me to tell him she would ‘frank’ him both ways. Wasn’t that considerate, Mrs Greville?”
“Very,” replied Mrs Greville, heartily. “I am exceedingly glad to hear it.”
“I am sure Basil will come,” continued Lilias, “for I told him papa and mamma would wish it. But, oh! Mrs Greville, you will really think I am dreaming when I tell you what else Mrs Brabazon told me.”
She looked up in Mrs Greville’s face, her blue eyes bright with excitement, her cheeks glowing with eagerness. Even lazy Mr Greville’s curiosity was aroused.
“Why, let us guess,” he said, jokingly. “Is old Mr Brooke going to adopt you and make you his heiress? Why, you would be irresistible then, Lilias! But, by-the-bye, he has a son and heir, so it can’t be that.”
“No,” said Lilias, “not exactly. But it’s something quite as wonderful. What do you think Mrs Greville – Mrs Brabazon gave me to understand – in fact, she said so plainly – that after Anselm, Mr Brooke’s only remaining child, mamma is heir to all, or, at least, to a great part of their property.”
“Your mother!” exclaimed Mrs Greville, apparently too astonished to say more. Mrs Western, she knew, had been a governess when her husband fell in love with and married her, and though she had always known her to be what is vaguely termed “well-connected,” she had somehow never associated her with possible riches or “position;” she had, on the contrary, often annoyed the Western girls by a slight shade of patronage in her tone of speaking of their mother, whom she looked upon as an amiable, decidedly unsophisticated and unworldly woman – “sair hauden doun” by the small means and large family at the Rectory.
“Your mother!” she repeated.
But Mr Greville’s worldly wisdom prevented his losing his head at the news.
“After Mr Brooke’s son, you say,” he observed. “But that makes all the difference. Lots of people are next heir but one to a fortune without ever coming any nearer it. What’s to prevent this Mr Anselm marrying and having half a dozen sons and daughters of his own?”
“That is the thing,” said Lilias, “that – Anselm, I mean, is, of course, what the whole depends upon. Had he been strong and well we should probably never have heard or known of our – of mamma’s position. But – it seems so horrid to talk about it so coolly – Anselm will never grow up and marry, Mr Greville – he is only sixteen now – for he is dying.”
“Dear me, dear me,” said Mr Greville, “how very, very sad!”
But underneath his not altogether conventional expression of sympathy, Lilias could plainly detect the reflection – “That very decidedly alters the state of the case.”
“Yes,” she agreed, “it is terribly sad.”
“And under these circumstances – for you speak of this son as an only child, and he has probably long been delicate,” pursued Mr Greville – “how is it, may I ask, that these Brookes have never before looked up your mother? Their meeting with you now is purely accidental, and more Mrs Brabazon’s doing than Mr Brooke’s, it seems to me.”
“She explained all that,” said Lilias. “It is only very lately that Anselm has been an only child. There was quite a large family of them, and five, I think, lived to grow up. But one by one they have dropped off – all died of consumption like their mother. Basil, the second son, and apparently the strongest, lived to be six-and-twenty, and only died last year, having caught cold at some races – regimental races, I mean; he was in the Dragoons,” her colour rising unaccountably as she mentioned the regiment. “Before his death, Mrs Brabazon says, he was very anxious to look us up, for he never expected that Anselm would live long. But his father has been in such a broken-down state that Mrs Brabazon could never get him to take any interest in the matter. She does; it is wonderful how she can do so, I think, when one remembers how she has seen her own nephews and nieces die one by one.”
“There is no chance, I suppose, of old Mr Brooke’s marrying again,” said Mr Greville, consideringly.
“None whatever. He is nearly seventy, fifteen years older than his sister, and thoroughly aged by trouble, she says.”
“Then the estates are entailed?”
“Principally, not altogether. But they have never been separated, and that was why Basil Brooke wanted his father to look us up. He was anxious that the alienable – is that the word? – part of the property should go with the entailed if the next heir were a desirable sort of person. For I must explain Basil is the real heir; mamma would only have a certain life-rent, a very ample one though, she could provide for all her other children out of it. The entail is somehow rather peculiar. Mrs Brabazon comes in for nothing, though so much nearer than mamma, because she has no son.”
“And has your mother no idea of all this?” inquired Mr Greville.
“None whatever,” said Lilias, decidedly. “She knew there had been an unprecedented number of deaths among the Brookes, but she has always had a vague idea there were scores of them left still. Then she never associated herself, being a woman, with the possibility of succession. There were several female Brookes only a few years ago, but of the three now left not one has a son, and they are all old, Mrs Brabazon the youngest. Now, dear Mr Greville, the question is this – what, or how much should I write home of all that I have heard?”
“Why not all?” said Mrs Greville.
“I don’t know,” said Lilias. “I suppose it is from a vague fear of rousing hopes that may possibly be – no, not disappointed, there hardly seems any chance of that – but deferred, long deferred, possibly. Anselm may live some months, but there can be no question of his recovery. He spoke to me about it himself; he is nearly as anxious for his father to recognise us and settle things as his brother Basil was, Mrs Brabazon says. But Mr Brooke may live a good many years, may quite possibly outlive papa,” the girl added, with a sad little drop in her voice.
“It is of that I am thinking,” said Mr Greville, turning to Lilias with a kind earnestness of manner contrasting strongly with his usual easy indifference. “By ‘that’ I mean your father’s state of health and spirits. It seems to me it would be cruel to keep all this from him for fear of possible delay in its coming to pass. The relief to him of knowing you all would have something to look to in case of his death would be great enough to be almost like a new lease of life. And surely, if things were turning out as Mrs Brabazon says, – surely if any such need were to arise, Mr Brooke would do something for your mother at once.”
“I think so,” said Lilias. “Mrs Brabazon did not say so exactly, but she certainly inferred it. When speaking of Basil, and hearing of his being in an office in the City, she and Anselm looked at each other. ‘That is just what we heard,’ Mrs Brabazon said, and Anselm asked if he did not dislike the life very much. I said, ‘No, not so very much – he was glad to be doing anything, though his great wish had been to go into the army,’ and poor Anselm said he did not see why that might not still be arranged.”
“Curious unselfishness, surely, to take such an interest in the one who, he believes, will eventually take his place,” observed Mr Greville.
“Yes,” said Lilias, “it struck me as strangely unselfish. But Mrs Brabazon says Anselm has never cared to live since his brother’s death. Basil was the strong one, and Anselm leaned on him for everything, he has always been so delicate, ‘living with a doom over him ever since he was born,’ Mrs Brabazon called it.”
“Consumption, I suppose?” said Mr Greville. “But your mother does not look as if she came from a consumptive family.”
“No, it is not from the Brookes, but from their mothers side that they are consumptive,” said Lilias. “The deaths among the other Brookes have been in many cases from accidental causes.”
There fell a little pause; Lilias, eager for decision, was just about to break it with a repeated request for advice, when Mr Greville intercepted her intention.
“I’ll tell you what I’d do in your place, my dear,” he said, suddenly. “Write the whole to your sister Mary. She’s as sensible a girl as one often meets with, and, being on the spot, can judge as to the effect the news is likely to have on your father.”
“Yes,” said Lilias, “I think I shall. She is on the spot, as you say, and could tell it less startlingly than I could write it. Besides,” she added, with a slight touch of filial jealousy, “she can consult mamma.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” said Mrs Greville, in a conventionally proper tone.
“And, after all,” said Mr Greville, a little maliciously, ”‘Mamma’ is really the chief person concerned.”
He was shrewd enough to suspect that notwithstanding his wife’s honest pleasure in good fortune coming to her old friends, she would have preferred its not coming to them through their mother, the quiet, reserved woman whom she had somehow never been able quite to understand, who met her good-natured patronage with an unruffled dignity which always prevented hearty Mrs Greville from feeling quite at ease in her presence, though mentally considering her as rather a poor creature than otherwise.
It was late that night, or early, rather, the next morning, before Lilias went to bed. For, till her letter to Mary was written, she felt she could not rest. If only she could have written one other letter too!
“Oh, Arthur,” she said to herself, “what good fortune your love seems to have brought us already! And should you become poor for my sake, what happiness if it should ever be in my power to restore to you any of what you may have sacrificed! My sisters and I would have daughters’ portions, Mrs Brabazon said; and mine could not, at the worst, but be enough for us to live on. How strange that the Brookes should know him!”
For in the course of conversation that day, it had been mentioned, à propos of the Cheviotts’ meeting with Mrs Brabazon in Paris, that Arthur Beverley and Basil Brooke had been brother officers and great friends.