That Stick

C >> Charlotte M. Yonge >> That Stick

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'Heir-apparent is only the eldest son, who cannot be displaced by any
contingency.'

'And there's a horrid, little, artful school teacher, who drew him in
years ago--before I was married even,' said Mrs. Morton. 'No doubt she
will try to keep him now. Most likely she always knew what was going to
happen. Cannot he be set free from the entanglement?'

'Oh!' gasped Constance.

'That is serious,' observed Mr. Rollstone gravely. 'It would be an
unfortunate commencement to have an action for breach of promise of
marriage.'

'She would never dare,' said Mrs. Morton. 'She is as poor as a rat, and
could not do it!'

'Well, Mrs. Morton,' said Mr. Rollstone, 'if I may be allowed to tender
my poor advice, it would be that you should be very cautious and careful
not to give any offence to his lordship, or to utter what might be
reported to him in a sinister manner.'

'Oh, I know every one has enemies!' said Mrs. Morton, tossing her head.

After this disappointment there was rather less interest displayed when
Mr. Rollstone proceeded to track out and explain the whole Northmoor
pedigree, from the great lawyer, Sir Michael Morton, who had gained the
peerage, down to the failure of the direct line, tracing the son from
whom Francis and Charles Morton were descended. Certainly Miss Marshall
must have been wonderfully foresighted if she had engaged herself with a
view to the succession, for at the time it began, the last Lord Northmoor
had two sons and a brother living! There was also a daughter, the
Honourable Bertha Augusta.

'Is she married?' demanded Mrs. Morton.

'It is not marked here, and if it had been mentioned in the papers, I
should not have failed to record it.'

'And how old is she?'

'The author of this peerage would never be guilty of the solecism of
recording a lady's age,' said Mr. Rollstone gravely; 'but as the
Honourable Arthur was born in 1848, and the Honourable Michael in 1850,
we may infer that the young lady is no longer in her first youth.'

'And not married? Nearly Fr--Lord Northmoor's age. She must be an old
cat who will set her mind on marrying him,' sighed Mrs. Morton, 'and will
make him cut all his own relations.'

'Then Mary Marshall might be the better lookout,' said Ida.

'She could never be unkind,' breathed little Constance.

'There is no knowing,' said Mr. Rollstone oracularly; 'but the result of
my observations has been that the true high-bred aristocracy are usually
far more affable and condescending than those elevated from a lower
rank.'

'Oh, I do hope for Miss Marshall,' said Constance in a whisper to Rose.

'Nasty old thing--a horrid old governess,' returned Ida; and they
tittered, scarcely pausing to hear Mr. Rollstone's announcement of the
discovery that he had entered the marriage in 1879 of the Honourable
Arthur Michael to Lady Adela Emily, only daughter of the Earl of
Arlington, and the death of the said Honourable Arthur by a carriage
accident four years later.

Then Herbert tumbled in, bringing a scent of tea and tar, and was greeted
with an imploring injunction to brush his hair and wash his hands--both
which operations he declared that he had performed, spreading out his
brown hands, which might be called clean, except for ingrained streaks of
tar. Mr. Rollstone tried to console his mother by declaring that it was
aristocratic to know how to handle the ropes; and Herbert, sitting among
the girls, began, while devouring sausages, to express his intention of
having a yacht, in which Rose should be taken on a voyage. No, not Ida;
she would only make a fool of herself on board; and besides, she had such
horrid sticking-out ears, with a pull at them, which made her scream, and
her mother rebuke him; while Mr. Rollstone observed that the young
gentleman had much to learn if he was to conform to aristocratic manners,
and Herbert under his breath hung aristocratic manners, and added that he
was not to be bored, at any rate, till he was a lord; and then to salve
any shock to his visitor, proceeded to say that his yacht should be the
_Rose_, and invite her to a voyage.

'Certainly not till you can behave yourself,' replied Rose; and there was
a general titter among the young people.

CHAPTER III
WHAT IS HONOUR?

'Here is a bit of news for you,' said Sir Edward Kenton, as, after a
morning of work with his agent, both came in to the family luncheon.
'Mr. Burford tells me that the Northmoor title has descended on his
agent, Morton.'

'That stick!' exclaimed George, the son and heir.

'Not altogether a stick, Mr. Kenton,' said the bald-headed gentlemanly
agent. 'He is very worthy and industrious!'

Frederica Kenton and her brother looked at each other as if this
character were not inconsistent with that of a stick.

'Poor man!' said their mother. 'Is it not a great misfortune to him?'

'I should think him sensible and methodical,' said Sir Edward. 'By the
way, did you not tell me that it was his diligence that discovered the
clause to which our success was owing in the Stockpen suit?'

'Yes, Sir Edward, through his indefatigable diligence in reading over
every document connected with the matter. I take shame to myself,' he
added, smiling, 'for it was in a letter that I had read and put aside,
missing that passage.'

'Then I am under great obligations to him?' said Sir Edward.

'I could also tell of what only came to my knowledge many years later,
and not through himself, of attempts made to tamper with his integrity,
and gain private information from him which he had steadily baffled.'

'There must be much in him,' said Lady Kenton, 'if only he is not
spoilt!'

'I am afraid he is heavily weighted,' said Mr. Burford. 'His brother's
widow and children are almost entirely dependent on him, more so, in my
opinion, than he should have allowed.'

'Exactly what I should expect from such a sheep,' said George Kenton.

'There is this advantage,' said the lawyer, 'it has prevented his
marrying.'

'At least that fatal step has been averted,' said the lady, smiling.

'But unluckily there is an entanglement, an endless engagement to a
governess at Miss Lang's.'

'Oh,' cried Freda, who once, during a long absence of the family abroad,
had been disposed of at Miss Lang's, 'there was always a kind of whisper
among us that Miss Marshall was engaged, though it was high treason to be
supposed to know.'

'Was that the one you called Creepmouse?' asked her brother.

'George, you should not bring up old misdeeds! She was a harmless old
thing. I believe the tinies were very fond of her, but we elders had not
much to do with her, only we used to think her horridly particular.'

'Does that mean conscientious?' asked her father.

'Perhaps it does; and though I was rather a goose then, I really believe
she was very kind, and did not want to be tiresome.'

'A lady?' asked her mother.

'I suppose so, but she was so awfully quiet there was no knowing.'

'Poor thing!' observed Lady Kenton, in a tone of commiseration.

'I think Morton told me that she was a clergy-orphan,' said Mr. Burford,
'and considered her as rather above him, for his father was a ruined
farmer and horse-breeder, and I only took him into my office out of
respect for his mother, though I never had a better bargain in my life.
Of course, however, this unlucky engagement cannot stand.'

'Indeed!' said the Baronet drily. 'Would you have him begin his career
with an act of baseness?'

'No--no, Sir Edward, I did not mean--' said Mr. Burford, rather abashed;
'but the lady might be worked on to resign her pretensions, since
persistence might not be for the happiness of either party; and he really
ought to marry a lady of fortune, say his cousin, Miss Morton, for I
understand that the Northmoor property was never considerable. The late
Mr. Morton was very extravagant, and there are heavy burthens on the
estate, by the settlement on his widow, Lady Adela, and on the late
Lord's daughter. Miss Lang tells me likewise that Miss Marshall is full
of doubts and scruples, and is almost persuaded that it is incumbent on
her to drop the engagement at any cost to herself. She is very
conscientious!'

'Poor thing!' sighed more than one voice.

'It is a serious question,' continued the solicitor, 'and I own that I
think it would be better for both if she were induced to release him.'

'Has she no relations of her own?'

'None that I ever heard of. She has always spent her holidays at Miss
Lang's.'

'Well, Mr. Burford,' exclaimed Freda, 'I think you are frightfully cruel
to my poor little Creep-mouse.'

'Nay, Freda,' said her mother; 'all that Mr. Burford is considering is
whether it would be for the happiness or welfare of either to be raised
to a position for which she is not prepared.'

'I thought you were on her side, mother.'

'There are no sides, Freda,' said her father reprovingly. 'The whole
must rest with the persons chiefly concerned, and no one ought to
interfere or influence them in either direction.' Having thus rebuked
Mr. Burford quite as much as his daughter, he added, 'Where is Lord
Northmoor now?'

'He wrote to me from Northmoor after the funeral, Sir Edward, saying that
he would return on Saturday. Of course, though three months' notice
would be due, I should not expect it, as I told him at first; but he
assures me that he will not leave me till my arrangements for supplying
his place are complete, and he will assist me as usual.'

'It is very proper of him,' said Sir Edward.

'It will be awkward in some ways,' said Mr. Burford. 'Yet I do not know
what I could otherwise have done, he had become so necessary to me.'

'Stick or no stick,' was the family comment of the Kentons, 'there must
be something in the man, if only his head is not turned.'

'Which,' observed Sir Edward, 'is not possible to a stick with a real
head, but only too easy to a sham one.'

CHAPTER IV
HONOURS WANING

'And who is the man?' So asked a lady in deep mourning of another still
more becraped, as they sat together in the darkened room of a Northmoor
house on the day before the funeral.

The speaker had her bonnet by her side, and showed a kindly, clever,
middle-aged face. She was Mrs. Bury, a widow, niece of the late Lord;
the other was his daughter, Bertha Morton, a few years younger. She was
not tearful, but had dark rings round her eyes, and looked haggard and
worn.

'The man? I never heard of him till this terrible loss of poor little
Mikey.'

'Then did he put in a claim?'

'Oh no, but Hailes knew about him, and so, indeed, did my father. It
seems that three generations ago there was a son who followed the
instincts of our race further than usual, and married a jockey's
daughter, or something of that sort. He was set up in a horse-breeding
farm and cut the connection; but it seems that there was always a sort of
communication of family events, so that Hailes knew exactly where to look
for an heir.'

'Not a jockey!'

'Oh no, nothing so diverting. That would be fun!' Bertha said, with a
laugh that had no merriment in it. 'He is a clerk--an attorney's clerk!
What do you think of that, Lettice?'

'Better than the jockey.'

'Oh, very respectable, they say'--with a sound of disgust.

'Is he young?'

'No; caught early, something might be done with him, but there's not that
hope. He is not much less than forty. Fancy a creature that has
pettifogged, as an underling too, all his life.'

'Married?'

'Thank goodness, no, and all the mammas in London and in the country will
be running after him. Not that he will be any great catch, for of course
he has nothing--and the poor place will be brought to a low ebb.'

'And what do you mean to do, Birdie?'

'Get out of sight of it all as fast as possible! Forget that horses ever
existed except as means of locomotion,' and Bertha got up and walked
towards the window as if restless with pain, then came back.

'I shall get rid of all I can--and come to live as near as I can to
Whitechapel, and slum! I'm free now.' Then looking at her cousin's
sorrowful, wistful face, 'Work, work, work, that's all that's good for
me. Soberly, Lettice, this is my plan,' she added, sitting down again.
'I know how it all is left. This new man is to have enough to go on
upon, so as not to be too beggarly and bring the title into contempt. He
is only coming for to-morrow, having to wind up his business; but I shall
stay on till he comes back, and settle what to do with the things here.
Adela and I have our choice of them, and don't want to leave the place
too bare. Then I shall sell the London house, and all the rest of the
encumbrances, and set up for myself.'

'Not with Adela?'

'Oh no; Adela means to stick by the old place, and I couldn't do that for
a constancy--oh no,' with a shudder.

'Does she?' in some wonder.

'Her own people don't want her. The Arlingtons are with her now, but I
fancy she would rather be sitting with us--or alone best of all, poor
dear. You see, she is a mixture of the angel that is too much for some
people. How she got it I don't know, not among us, I should think,
though she came to us straight out of the schoolroom, or I fancy she
would never have come at all. But oh, Lettice, if you could have seen
her how patient she has been throughout with my father, reading him all
about every race, just because she thought it was less gall and wormwood
to her than to me, and going out to the stables to satisfy him about his
dear Night Hawk, and all the rest of it. When she was away for that
fortnight over poor little Michael, I found to the full what she had
been, and then after that, back she comes again, as white as a sheet, but
all she ever was to my father, and more wonderful than all, setting
herself to reconcile him to the notion of this new heir of his--and I do
believe, if my father had not so suddenly grown worse, she would have
made us have him up to be introduced--all out of rectitude and duty, you
know, for Adela is the shyest of mortals, and recoils by nature from the
underbred far more than we do. In fact, I rather like it. It gives me a
sensation. I had ten times rather this man were a common sailor, or a
tinker, than just a stupid stick of a clerk!'

'Then Adela means to stay at the Dower House?'

'Yes, she has rooted herself there by all her love to her poor people,
and I fancy, too, that she does not want to bring Amice up among all the
Arlington children, who are not after her pattern, so she intends to bear
the brunt of it, and not leave Northmoor, unless the new-comers turn out
unbearable.'

'She goes away with her brother now.'

'Oh yes, she must, and Lord Arlington is fond of her in a way! Can't you
stay on with me, Lettice?'

'I wish I could, my dear Birdie, but I am anxious about Mary; I don't
think I must stay later than Sunday.'

'Yes; you are too devoted a mother for me to absorb. Never mind, you
will be in London, and I shall soon be within reach of you. You are a
comfortable person, Lettice.'

CHAPTER V
THE PEER

Poor Miss Lang! After all her care that her young pupils' heads should
not be turned by folly about marriage and noblemen, the very event she
had always viewed as most absurdly improbable had really occurred, and it
was impossible to keep it a secret; though Miss Marshall did her very
best to appear as usual, heard lessons with her accustomed diligence,
conducted the daily exercises, watched over the instructions by masters,
and presided over the needlework. But she grew whiter, more pinched, and
her little face more mouse-like every day, and the elder girls whispered
fancies about her. 'She had no doubt heard that Lord Northmoor had
broken it off!'--'A little poky attorney's clerk, of course he
would.'--'Poor dear thing, she will go into a consumption! Didn't you
hear her cough last night?'--'And then we'll all throw wreaths into her
grave!'--'Oh, that was only Elsie Harris!'--'Nonsense, Mabel, I'm sure it
was her, poor thing. Prenez garde, la vieille Dragonne vient.'

That Lord Northmoor was to come back by the mail train was known, and
Miss Lang had sent a polite note to invite him to afternoon tea on the
Sunday. The church to which he had been for many years devoted was a
district one, and Miss Lang's establishment had their places in the old
parish church, so there was not much chance of meeting in the morning,
though one pupil observed to another that 'she should think him a beast
if they did not meet him on the way to church.'

It is to be feared that she had to form this opinion, but on the other
hand, by the early dinner-time, tidings pervaded the school that Lord
Northmoor had been at St. Basil's, and sung in his surplice just as if
nothing had happened! The more sensational party of girls further
averred that he had been base enough to walk thither with Miss Burford,
and that Miss Marshall had been crying all church time. Whether this was
true or not, it was certain that she ate scarcely any dinner, and that
Miss Lang insisted on administering a glass of wine.

Moreover, when dinner was finally over, she quietly crept up to her own
room, and resumed her church-going bonnet--a little black net, with a
long-enduring bunch of violets. Then she knelt down and entreated, 'Oh,
show me Thy will, and give me strength and judgment to do that which may
be best for him, and may neither of us be beguiled by the world or by
ambition.'

Then she peeped out to make sure that the coast was clear--not that she
was not quite free to go where she pleased, but she dreaded eyes and
titters--out at the door, to the corner of the lane where for many a
Sunday afternoon there had been a quiet tryste and walk. Her heart beat
so as almost to choke her, and she hardly durst raise her eyes to see if
the accustomed figure awaited her. Was it the accustomed figure? Her
eyes dazzled so under her little holland parasol that she could hardly
see, and though there was a movement towards her, she felt unable to look
up till she heard the words, 'Mary, at last!' and felt the clasp of the
hand.

'Oh, Frank--I mean--'

'You mean Frank, your own Frank; nothing else to you.'

'Ought you?' And as she murmured she looked up. It was the same, but
still a certain change was there, almost indescribable, but still to be
felt, as if a line of toil and weariness had passed from the cheek. The
quiet gray eyes were brighter and more eager, the bearing as if ten years
had been taken from the forty, and though Mary did not perceive the
details, the dress showing that his mourning had not come from the
country town tailor and outfitter, even the soft hat a very different
article from that which was wont to replace the well-cherished tall one
of Sunday mornings.

'I had not much time,' he said, 'but I thought this would be of the most
use,' and he began clasping on her arm a gold bracelet with a tiny watch
on it. 'I thought you would like best to keep our old ring.'

'If--if I ought to keep it at all,' she faltered.

'Now, Mary, I will not have an afternoon spoilt by any folly of that
sort,' he said.

'Is it folly? Nay, listen. Should you not get on far far better without
such a poor little stupid thing as I am?'

'I always thought I was the stupid one.'

'You--but you are a man.'

'So much the worse!'

'Yes; but, Frank, don't you see what I mean? This thing has come to you,
and you can't help it, and you are descended from these people really;
but it would be choice for me, and I could not bear to feel that you were
ashamed of me.'

'Never!' he exclaimed. 'Look here, Mary. What should I do without you
to come back to and be at rest with? All the time I was talking to those
ladies and going through those fine rooms, I was thinking of the one
comfort I should have when I have you all to myself. See,' he added,
going over the arguments that he had no doubt prepared, 'it is not as if
you were like poor Emma. You are a lady all over, and have always lived
with ladies; and yet you are not too grand for me. Think what you would
leave me to--to be wretched by myself, or else-- I could never be at
home with those high-bred folk. I felt it every moment, though Miss
Morton was very kind, and even wanted me to call her Birdie. I _did_
feel thankful I could tell her I was engaged.'

'You did!'

'Yes; and she was very kind, and said she was glad of it, and hoped soon
to know you.'

'Oh, Frank dear, I am sure no one ever was more really noble-hearted than
you,' she almost sobbed; 'you know how I shall always feel it; but yet,
but yet I can't help thinking you ought to leave it a little more
unsettled till you have looked about a little and seen whether I should
be a very great disadvantage to you.'

'Seen whether I could find such a dear, unselfish little woman, eh? No,
no, Mary, put all that out of your head. We have not loved one another
for twenty years for a trumpery title to come between us now! And you
need not fear being too well off for the position. The agent, Hailes,
has been continually apologising to me for the smallness of the means.
He says either we must have no house in London, or else let Northmoor.
He cannot tell me yet exactly what income we shall have, but the farms
don't let well, and there is not much ready money.'

'Every one says you ought to marry a lady of fortune.'

'My dear Mary, to what would you condemn me? What sort of lady of
fortune do you think would take an old stick like me for the sake of
being my Lady? I really shall begin to believe you are tired of it.'

'Stick! oh no, no. Staff, if'--and the manner in which she began to
cling was answer full and complete; indeed, as she saw that her
resistance had begun to hurt him as much as herself, she felt herself
free to throw herself into the interests, and ask, 'Is Northmoor a very
nice place?'

'Not so pretty as Cotes Kenton outside. A great white house, with a
portico for carriages to drive under, and not kept up very well, patches
of plaster coming off; but there is a beautiful view over the woods, with
a purple moor beyond.'

'And inside?'

'Well, rather dreary, waiting for you to make it homelike. They have not
lived there much for some time past. Lady Adela has lived in the Dower
House, and will continue there.'

'Did you see much of them?'

'Not Lady Adela. Poor lady, she had her own relations with her. She had
not by any means recovered the loss of her little boy, and I can quite
understand that it must have been too trying for her to see me in his
place. I understand from Hailes--'

'Your Mr. Burford,' said Mary, smiling.

'That she is a very refined, rather exclusive and domestic lady, devoted
to her little girl, and extremely kind to the poor. Indeed, so is Miss
Morton, but she prefers the London poor, and is altogether rather
flighty, and what Hailes calls an unconventional young lady. There was a
very nice lady with her, Mrs. Bury, the daughter of a brother of the late
Lord, a widow, and very kind and friendly. Both were very good-natured,
Miss Morton always acted hostess, and talked continually.'

'About her father?'

'Oh no, I do not think he had been a very affectionate father, and their
habits and tastes had been very different. Lady Adela seems to have
latterly been more to him. Miss Morton was chiefly concerned to advise
me about politics and social questions, and how to deal with the estate
and the tenants.'

He seemed somewhat to shudder at the recollection, and Mary certainly
conceived a dread of the ladies of Northmoor. It was further elicited
that he meant to help Mr. Burford through all the work and arrangements
consequent on his own succession, indeed, to remain at his post either
till a successor was found, or the junior sufficiently indoctrinated to
take the place. Of course, as he said, six months' notice was due, but
Mr. Burford has waived this. During this time he meant to go to see
'poor Emma' at Westhaven, but it was not an expedition he seemed much to
relish, and he wished to defer it till he could definitely tell what it
would be in his power to do for her and her children, for whose education
he was really anxious, rejoicing that they were still young enough to be
moulded.

Then came the tea at Miss Lang's--a stately meal, when the two ladies
were grand; Lord Northmoor became shy and frozen, monosyllabic, and only
spasmodically able to utter; and Mary felt it in all her nerves and
subsided into her smallest self, under the sense that nobody ever would
do him justice.

CHAPTER VI
THE WEIGHT OF HONOURS

The next was a fortnight of strange and new experiences. Lord Northmoor
spent most of his days over the papers in the office, so much his usual
self, that Mr. Burford generally forgot, and called to him as 'Morton' so
naturally that after the first the other clerks left off sniggering.

There Sir Edward called on him, and in an interview in his sitting-room
at the office asked him to a quiet dinner, together with the solicitor;
but this was hardly a success, for Mr. Burford, being at home with the
family, did all the talking, and Frank could not but feel in the presence
of his master, and had not a word to say for himself, especially as
George and Freda looked critical, and as if 'That stick' was in their
minds, if not on their lips. The only time when he approached a thaw was
when in the hot summer evening Lady Kenton made him her companion in a
twilight stroll on the terraces, when he looked at the roses with
delight, and volunteered a question about the best sorts, saying that the
garden at Northmoor had been much neglected, and he wanted to have it in
good order, 'that is'--blushing and correcting himself--'if we can live
there.'

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