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Vicissitudes of Bessie Fairfax

<h3>CHAPTER XXXV.</h3> <h3>ABBOTSMEAD IN SHADOW.</h3> Mr. Fairfax's letters were brought to him, and after glancing cursorily through the batch, he gathered them all up and went off to his private room. Bessie conjectured that he would be busy for the rest of the afternoon, and she took a walk in the park until dusk, when she returned to the house and retired to her own parlor. The dressing-bell rang at a quarter to seven, as usual, and Mrs. Betts came to assist at her young lady's toilet. Being dressed, Bessie descended to the octagon room, which she found empty. It was a fine, frosty night, and the sky was full of stars. She put aside a curtain and looked out into the wintry garden, feeling more than ever alone and desolate amidst the grandeur of her home. It seemed as if the last unkindness she had suffered was the worst of all, and her heart yearned painfully towards her friends in the Forest. Oh, for their simple, warm affection! She would have liked to be sitting with her mother in the old-fashioned dining-room at Beechhurst, listening for the doctor's return and the clink of Miss Hoyden's hoofs on the hard frozen road, as they had listened often in the winters long ago. She forgot herself in that reverie, and scarcely noticed that the door had been opened and shut again until her grandfather spoke from the hearth, saying that Jonquil had announced dinner. The amiable disposition in which the squire had come home appeared to have passed off completely. Bessie had seen him often crabbed and sarcastic, but never so irritable as he was that evening. Nothing went right, from the soup to the dessert, and Jonquil even stirred the fire amiss. Some matter in his correspondence had put him out. But as he made no allusion to his grievance, Bessie was of course blind and deaf to his untoward symptoms. The next day he went to Norminster to see Mr. John Short, and came back in no better humor—in a worse humor if possible—and Mrs. Stokes whispered to Bessie the explanation of it. Mr. Fairfax had inherited a lawsuit with a small estate in Durham, bequeathed to him by a distant connexion, and this suit, after being for years a blister on his peace, had been finally decided against him. The estate was lost, and the plague of the suit with it, but there were large costs to pay and the time was inconvenient. "Your grandfather contributed heavily to the election of Mr. Cecil Burleigh in the prospect of an event which it seems is not to be," concluded the little lady with reproachful significance. "My Arthur told me all about it (Mr. Fairfax consults him on everything); and now there are I don't know how many thousands to pay in the shape of back rents, interest, and costs, but it is an immense sum." Bessie was sorry, very sorry, and showed it with so much sense and sympathy that her grandfather presently revealed his vexations to her himself, and having once mentioned them, he found her a resource to complain to again. She hoped that he would get over his defeat the sooner for talking of it, but he did not. He was utterly convinced that he had right on his side, and he wanted a new trial, from which Mr. John Short could hardly dissuade him. The root of his profound annoyance was that Abbotsmead must be encumbered to pay for the lost suit, unless his son Frederick, who had ready money accumulated from the unspent fortune of his wife, would come to the rescue. In answer to his father's appeal Frederick wrote back that a certain considerable sum which he mentioned was at his service, but as for the bulk of his wife's fortune, he intended it to revert to her family. Mr. Laurence Fairfax made, through the lawyer, an offer of further help to keep Abbotsmead clear of mortgages, and with the bitter remark that it was Laurence's interest to do so, the squire accepted his offer. So much at this crisis did Bessie hear of money and the burden and anxiety of great estates that she thought poverty must be far preferable. The squire developed a positively bad temper under his worries. And he was not irritable only: by degrees he became ill, and yet would have no advice. Jonquil was greatly troubled about him, and when he refused to mount his horse one splendid hunting morning in February, though he was all equipped and ready, Bessie also began to wonder what ailed him besides crossness, for he was a man of strong constitution and not subject to fanciful infirmities. Early in March, Mr. Frederick Fairfax wrote home that his Russian tour was accomplished, and that he was impatient to be on board his yacht again. The weather was exceedingly rough and tempestuous later in the month, and the squire, watching the wrack of the storm on the wolds, often expressed anxiety lest his son should be rash and venturesome enough to trust himself out of port in such weather. Everybody was relieved when April opened with sunny showers and the long and severe winter seemed to be at an end. It had not made Bessie more in love with her life at Abbotsmead: there had, indeed, been times of inexpressible dreariness in it very trying to her fortitude. With the dawning of brighter days in spring she could not but think of the Forest with fresh longing, and she watched each morning's post for the arrival of that invitation to Fairfield which Lady Latimer had promised to send. At length it came, and after brief demur received a favorable answer. The squire had a mortified consciousness that his granddaughter's life was not very cheerful, and, though he did not refuse her wish, he was unable to grant it heartily. However, the fact of his consent overcame the manner of it, and Bessie was enjoying the pleasures of anticipation, and writing ecstatically to her mother, when an event happened that threw Abbotsmead into mourning and changed the bent even of her desires. One chilly evening after dinner, when she had retreated to the octagon parlor, and was dreaming by the fireside in the dusk alone, Jonquil, with visage white as a ghost, ushered in Mr. John Short. He had walked over from Mitford Junction, in the absence of any vehicle to bring him on, and was jaded and depressed, though with an air of forced composure. As Jonquil withdrew to seek his master the lawyer advanced into the firelight, and Bessie saw at once that he came on some sad errand. Her grandfather had gone, she believed, to look after his favorite hunter, which had met with a severe sprain a week ago; but she was not sure, for he had been more and more restless for some time past, had taken to walking at unaccustomed hours, to neglecting his correspondence, leaving letters for days unopened, and betraying various other signs of a mind unsettled and disturbed. It had appeared to Bessie that he was always in a state of distressed expectancy, but what for she had no idea. The appearance of Mr. John Short without previous notice suggested new vexation connected with the lawsuit, but when she asked if he were again the messenger of bad news, he startled her with a much more tragical announcement. "I am sorry to say that I am, Miss Fairfax. Mr. Frederick has not lived much at home of late years, but I fear that it will be a terrible shock to his father to hear that he is lost," said Mr. John Short. "Lost!" echoed Bessie. "Lost! Oh where? Poor grandpapa!" "On the Danish coast. His yacht was wrecked in one of the gales of last month, and all on board perished. The washing ashore of portions of the wreck leaves no doubt of the disaster. The consul at the nearest port communicated with the authorities in London, and the intelligence reached me some days ago in a form that left little to hope. This morning the worst was confirmed." Bessie sat down feeling inexpressibly sorrowful. "Grandpapa is out somewhere—Jonquil is seeking him. Oh, how I wish I could be more of a help and comfort to him!" she said, raising her eyes to the lawyer's face. "It is a singular thing, Miss Fairfax, but your grandfather never seems to want help or comfort like other men. He shuts himself up and broods—just broods—when he is grieved or angry. He was very genial and pleasant as a young man, but he had a disappointment of the affections that quite soured him. I do not know that he ever made a friend of any one but his sister Dorothy. They were on the Continent for a year after that affair, and she died in Italy. He was a changed man when he came home, and he married a woman of good family, but nobody was, perhaps, more of a stranger to him than his own wife. It was generally remarked. And he seemed to care as little for her children as he did for her. I have often been surprised to see that he was indifferent whether they came to Abbotsmead or not; yet the death of Mr. Geoffry, your father, hurt him severely, and Mr. Frederick's will be no less a pain." "I wish I had not vexed him about my uncle Laurence's boys. We were becoming good friends before," said Bessie. "Oh, the squire will not bear malice for that. He discriminates between the generosity of your intention towards the children, and what he probably mistook for a will to rule himself. He acted very perversely in going out of the way." "Does my uncle Laurence know the news you bring?" "Yes, but he desired me to be the first medium of it. Jonquil is a long while seeking his master." A very long while. So long that Bessie rang the bell to inquire, and the little page answered it. The master was not come in, he said; they had sent every way to find him. Bessie rose in haste, and followed by Mr. John Short went along the passage to her grandfather's private room. That was dark and empty, and so was the lobby by which it communicated with the garden and the way to the stables. She was just turning back when she bethought her to open the outer door, and there, at the foot of the steps on the gravel-walk, lay the squire. She did not scream nor cry, but ran down and helped to carry him in, holding his white head tenderly. For a minute they laid him on the couch in the justice-room, and servants came running with lights. "It is not death," said Mrs. Betts, peering close in the unconscious face. "The fire is out here: we will move him to his chamber at once." As they raised him again one stiffened hand that clutched a letter relaxed and dropped it. The lawyer picked it up and gave it to Miss Fairfax. It was a week old—a sort of official letter recording the wreck of the Foam and the loss of her crew. The suddenness and tragical character of the news had been too much for the poor father. In the shock of it he had apparently staggered into the air and had fallen unconscious, smitten with paralysis. Such was the verdict of Mr. Wilson, the general practitioner at Mitford, who arrived first upon the scene, and Dr. Marks, the experienced physician from Norminster, who came in the early morning, supported his opinion. The latter was a stranger to the house, and before he left it he asked to see Miss Fairfax. The night had got over between waiting and watching, and Bessie had not slept—had not even lain down to rest. She begged that Dr. Marks might be shown to her parlor, and Mr. John Short appeared with him. Mrs. Betts had put over her shoulders a white cachemire wrapper, and with her fair hair loosened and flowing she sat by the window over-looking the fields and the river where the misty morning was breaking slowly into sunshine. Both the gentlemen were impressed by a certain power in her, a fortitude and gentleness combined that are a woman's best strength in times of trouble and difficulty. They could speak to her without fear of creating fresh embarrassment as plainly as it was desirable that they should speak, for she was manifestly aware of a responsibility devolving upon her. "Though I apprehend no immediate danger, Miss Fairfax, it is to be regretted that this sad moment finds Mr. Fairfax at variance with his only surviving son," said Dr. Marks. "Mr. Laurence Fairfax ought to be here. It is probable that his father has not made a final disposition of his affairs; indeed, I understand from Mr. John Short that he has not done so." "Oh, does that matter now?" said Bessie. "Mr. Fairfax's recovery might be promoted if his mind were quite at ease. If he should wish to transact any business with his lawyer, you may be required to speak of your own wishes. Do not waste the favorable moment. The stroke has not been severe, and I have good hopes of restoration, but when the patient is verging on seventy we can never be sure." Dr. Marks went away, leaving Mr. Wilson to watch the case. Mr. John Short then explained to Bessie the need there was that she should be prepared for any event: a rally of consciousness was what he hoped for, perfect, whether tending to recovery or the precursor of dissolution. For he knew of no will that Mr. Frederick had made, and he knew that since the discovery of Mr. Laurence's marriage the squire had destroyed the last will of his own making, and that he had not even drawn out a rough scheme of his further intentions. The entailed estates were of course inalienable—those must pass to his son and his son's son—but there were houses and lands besides over which he had the power of settlement. Bessie listened, but found it very hard to give her mind to these considerations, and said so. "My uncle Laurence is the person to talk to," she suggested. "Probably he will arrive before the day is over, but you are to be thought of, you are to be provided for, Miss Fairfax." "Oh, I don't care for myself at all," said Bessie. "The more need, then, that some one else should care for you," replied Mr. John Short. Inquirers daily besieged Abbotsmead for news of the squire. Mr. Laurence Fairfax came over, and Mr. John Short stayed on, expecting his opportunity, while slowly the old man recovered up to a certain point. But his constitution was permanently weakened and his speech indistinct. Jonquil, Macky, and Mrs. Betts were his nurses, and the first person that he was understood to ask for was Elizabeth. Bessie was so glad of his recollection that she went to him with a bright face—the first bright face that had come about his bed yet—and he was evidently pleased. She took up one of his hands and stroked and kissed it, and knelt down to bring herself nearer to him, all with that affectionate kindness that his life had missed ever since his sister Dorothy died. "You are better, grandpapa; you will soon be up and out of doors again," said she cheerfully. He gave her no answer, but lay composed with his eyes resting upon her. It was doubtful whether the cause of his illness had recurred to his weakened memory, for he had not attempted to speak of it. She went on to tell him what friends and neighbors had been to ask after his health—Mr. Chiverton, Sir Edward Lucas, Mr. Oliver Smith—and what letters to the same purport she had received from Lady Latimer, Lady Angleby, Mr. Cecil Burleigh, and others, to which she had replied. He acknowledged each item of her information with a glance, but he made no return inquiries. Mr. Chiverton had called that day, and the form in which he carried intelligence home to his wife was, "Poor Fairfax will not die of this bout, but he has got his first warning." Mrs. Chiverton was sorry, but she did not refrain from speculating on how Miss Fairfax would be influenced in her fortunes by the triple catastrophe of her uncle Laurence's marriage, her uncle Frederick's death, and her grandfather's impending demise. "I suppose if Mr. Laurence were unmarried, as all the world believed him to be, she would stand now as the greatest prospective heiress in this part of the county. If it was her fortune Mr. Cecil Burleigh wanted, he has had a deliverance." "I am far from sure that Burleigh thinks so," returned Mr. Chiverton significantly. "Oh, I imagined that projected marriage was one of convenience, a family compact." "In the first instance so it was. But the young lady's rosy simplicity caught Burleigh's fancy, and it is still in the power of Mr. Fairfax to make his granddaughter rich." Whether Mr. Fairfax would make his granddaughter rich was debated in circles where it was not a personal interest, but of course it was discussed with much livelier vivacity where it was. Lady Angleby expressed a confident expectation that as Miss Fairfax had been latterly brought up in anticipation of heiress-ship, her grandfather would endow her with a noble fortune, and Miss Burleigh, with ulterior views for her brother, ventured to hope the same. But Mr. Fairfax was in no haste to set his house in order. He saw his son Laurence for a few minutes twice, but gave him no encouragement to linger at Abbotsmead, and his reply to Mr. John Short on the only occasion when he openly approached the subject of will-making was, "There is time enough yet." The household was put into mourning, but as there was no bringing home of the dead and no funeral, the event of the eldest son's death passed with little outward mark. Elizabeth was her grandfather's chief companion in-doors, and she was cheerful for his sake under circumstances that were tryingly oppressive. To keep up to her duty she rode daily, rain or fair, and towards the month's end there were many soft, wet days when all the wolds were wrapt in mist. People watched her go by often, with Joss at Janey's heels, and Ranby following behind, and said they were sorry for Miss Fairfax; it was very sad for so young a girl to have to bear, unsupported, the burden of her grandfather's declining old age. For the squire was still consistent in his obstinacy in refusing to be gracious to his son and his son's wife and children, and Bessie, on her uncle Laurence's advice, refrained from mentioning them any more. Old Jonquil alone had greater courage. One evening the squire, after lying long silent, broke out with, "Poor Fred is gone!" the first spontaneous allusion to his loss that he had made. Jonquil hastened to him. "My dear master, my dear master!" he lamented. "Oh, sir, you have but one son now! forgive him, and let the little boys come home—for your own sake, dear master." "They will come home, as you call it, when I follow poor Fred. My son Laurence stands in no need of forgiveness—he has done me no wrong. Strange women and children would be in my way; they are better where they are." Thus had the squire once answered every plea on behalf of his son Geoffry. Jonquil remembered very well, and held his peace, sighing as one without hope. <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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