Part 5
‘Oh, bother that! Do it when you get back. It’s your concern—not mine. I’ve had enough of you for one while; and I feel confoundedly queer. I suppose this business has upset me, though I don’t know why it should. It wouldn’t have done so, once on a time.—Good-day.’ And, nothing loth, Mr Blackford took himself off with his treasure.
The prize was his; but only conditionally. This unreliable testator might alter his mind at any moment and undo his freak. Mr Blackford, with all his faults, was not murderously inclined; but it is to be feared that if some burglar in the pursuit of his calling had found it necessary to eliminate Mr Franklin that night, and had confided his intentions beforehand to the solicitor, something would have happened to prevent that gentleman from warning the police. He re-entered his office with a sigh. Never had it appeared to him so gloomy as at this moment, when, with the possibility of future wealth in his pocket, he found himself still confronted with the necessity of solving that difficult and importunate bread-and-cheese problem.
Uncle Franklin had rightly estimated his chances of remaining an inmate of the Wedlake nest. On the morning after the execution of his will, he came down to the dining-room at breakfast-time, and then and there ate humble-pie with the best grace he could assume. He apologised formally to Lucy, and promised never to repeat his behaviour. He pleaded to Tom his failing health and increasing age, and drew a moving picture of himself as an outcast upon the world, at the mercy of landladies; and he did this with a certain rough pathos which produced its effect. Tom was very short and stern in his replies, and would commit himself to nothing definite, but promised to think the matter over during the day. And when he returned at night, Lucy the soft-hearted met him with an appeal, before which he gave way.
‘He has been very humble and quiet all day,’ said she. ‘I think, my boy—so savage about his little wife!—has quite broken the poor old man’s spirit. I don’t think we ought to send him away. Of course, there is the money; and it’s nonsense to pretend that we shouldn’t be glad if he were to leave us a little. We can’t afford to despise it, Tom. I am sure he likes me, though he is so cross; and I am not much afraid that this affair will make any difference in the end. But besides all that, he is so friendless and alone, rich as he is.—We will try to keep him, won’t we, Tom dear?’
‘He must be on his good behaviour, then,’ said Tom, only half mollified. ‘I’ll stand no more nonsense, let him be as rich as Crœsus.’
‘Leave him to me,’ said Lucy; ‘there will be no more trouble with him. It was my own fault for giving way so much. I shall be wiser now, and so will he.’
‘As you like, dear,’ said her husband. ‘I have no right to oppose you in this matter, if you are willing to sacrifice yourself. I am very much afraid you will be disappointed. Forgiveness of injuries is not in your dear uncle’s nature, or I am much mistaken. He hates me like poison now, of course; and he can’t benefit you without doing the same by me, to some extent.’
‘I don’t know,’ returned Lucy thoughtfully. ‘I think you will find him very different in future. He seems to me as if he had had a shock. No one has ever stood up to him before, you know; and the treatment may have a good effect.’
It did not occur to either of them to attach any importance to the visits of Mr Blackford, of whose profession they were ignorant. Uncle Franklin, though he had retired from trade, continued his speculative investments; and the calls of gentlemen of unmistakable ‘business’ appearance were of such common occurrence, that they had almost ceased to attract notice in the household, the master and mistress of which were two of the least curious people in the world.
The old man certainly was altered, suddenly and strangely. His ill-temper had disappeared; he even refrained from swearing when, on one occasion, a mishap in the kitchen ruined his lunch. He became remarkably silent; he gave up his morning walk, seldom read his paper, and moped all day in his armchair, following Lucy about the room with his eyes whenever she was present. She was rather anxious about him, and did her best, by redoubled kindness and attention, to soothe what she supposed to be his mortification under the sharp rebuke which he had received. For a long time he scarcely noticed her efforts, remaining sullen and unresponsive; but after a while she found that he still liked her to be near him, and got restless and uneasy if she were long absent. He seemed to have something on his mind, and would gaze into the fire and mutter anxiously to himself for hours together. For Tom he entertained a hearty and unconcealed aversion, never speaking to him unless obliged to do so, and glaring at him with no doubtful expression whenever his back was turned. Of this Tom was almost oblivious, and entirely careless; for no ‘expectations,’ however important to himself or to others, could have enabled him to dissemble his real feelings towards any one whom he either loved or disliked.
DREAM-FANCIES.
Whence are ye that come to us In the stilly night? Wherefore do you torture thus, Phantoms of delight? Say, if ye are only fancies, Why your presence so entrances— So deceives our sight?
Where, oh, where’s your stronghold, tell, In what fairy land? O’er what meads of Asphodel Sport your elfin band? Tell me truly, flitting fancies, Where you hold those fairy dances, On what sunny strand?
When you, with your subtle spell, Hold our senses fast, Absent comrades with us dwell, Present seems the Past: Say, if ye are idle fancies, Why, when overpast the trance is, Its impressions last?
Wherefore bring before us still Those from whom we sever? Mean you, that you tyrants will Grant oblivion never? Say, if ye are dreams and fancies, Why in dreams young Cupid’s lances Strike as deep as ever?
Tell me who your power confers, Say from whom ye borrow All your magic—harbingers Ushering joy or sorrow; Why, if ye’re but fickle fancies, These dream-faces, these dream-glances Haunt us so to-morrow?
Mortal mind may never know, Mortal wisdom cite Whence ye come or whither go, Spirits of the night: Yet your mystery enhances, And your witchery entrances More than pen may write.
E. W. H.
* * * * *
Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON, and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.
* * * * *
_All Rights Reserved._