bitterness and suspicion. And it was doubtless the case that the Squire resented bitterly an act done by his own father with the view of perpetuating the property in the true line of the Newtons. For when the settlement was made on the marriage of the younger brother, the elder was already the father of a child, whom he loved none the less because that child's mother had not become his wife. So the quarrel had been fostered, and at the time of the parson's death had extended itself to the young man who was his son, and the heir to the estate. When on his death-bed, the parson had asked Mr. Underwood, who had just then entered the House of Commons, to undertake this guardianship; and the lawyer, with many doubts, had consented. He had striven, but striven in vain, to reconcile the uncle and nephew. And, indeed, he was ill-fitted to accomplish such task. He could only write letters on the subject, which were very sensible but very cold;—in all of which he would be careful to explain that the steps which had been taken in regard to the property were in strict conformity with the law. The old Squire would have nothing to do with his heir—in which resolution he was strengthened by the tidings which reached him of his heir's manner of living. He was taught to believe that everything was going to the dogs with the young man, and was wont to say that Newton Priory, with all its acres, would be found to have gone to the dogs too when his day was done;—unless, indeed, Ralph should fortunately kill himself by drink or evil living, in which case the property would go to the younger Gregory, the present parson. Now the present parson of Newton was his uncle's friend. Whether that friendship would have been continued had Ralph died and the young clergyman become the heir, may be matter of doubt.
This disagreeable duty of guardianship Sir Thomas had performed with many scruples of conscience, and a determination to do his best;—and he had nearly done it well. But he was a man who could not do it altogether well, let his scruples of conscience be what they might. He had failed in obtaining a father's control over the young man; and even in regard to the property which had passed through his hands—though he had been careful with it—he had not been adroit. Even at this moment things had not been settled which should have been settled; and Sir Thomas had felt, when Ralph had spoken of selling all that remained to him and of paying his debts, that there would be fresh trouble, and that he might be forced to own that he had been himself deficient.
And then he told himself—and did so as soon as Ralph had left him—that he should have given some counsel to the young man when he came to ask for it. "You had better cut your throat!" In his troubled spirit he had said that, and now his spirit was troubled the more because he had so spoken. He sat for hours thinking of it all. Ralph Newton was the undoubted heir to a very large property. He was now embarrassed—but all his present debts did not amount to much more than half one year's income of that property which would be his—probably in about ten years. The Squire might live for twenty years, or might die to-morrow; but his life-interest in the estate, according to the usual calculations, was not worth more than ten years' purchase. Could he, Sir Thomas, have been right to tell a young man, whose prospects were so good, and whose debts, after all, were so light, that he ought to go and cut his throat, as the only way of avoiding a disreputable marriage which would otherwise be forced upon him by the burden of his circumstances? Would not a guardian, with any true idea of his duty, would not a friend, whose friendship was in any degree real, have found a way out of such difficulties as these?
And then as to the marriage itself—the proposed marriage with the breeches-maker's daughter—the more Sir Thomas thought of it the more distasteful did it become to him. He knew that Ralph was unaware of all the evil that would follow such a marriage;—relatives whose every thought and action and word would be distasteful to him; children whose mother would not be a lady, and whose blood would be polluted by an admixture so base;—and, worse still, a life's companion who would be deficient in all those attributes which such a man as Ralph Newton should look for in a wife. Sir Thomas was a man to magnify rather than lessen these evils. And now he allowed his friend—a man for whose behalf he had bound himself to use all the exercise of friendship—to go from him with an idea that nothing but suicide could prevent this marriage, simply because there was an amount of debt, which, when compared with the man's prospects, should hardly have been regarded as a burden! As he thought of all this Sir Thomas was very unhappy.
Ralph had left him at about ten o'clock, and he then sat brooding over his misery for about an hour. It was his custom when he remained in his chambers to tell his clerk, Stemm, between nine and ten that nothing more would be wanted. Then Stemm would go, and Sir Thomas would sleep for a while in his chair. But the old clerk never stirred till thus dismissed. It was now eleven, and Sir Thomas knew very well that Stemm would be in his closet. He opened the door and called, and Stemm, aroused from his slumbers, slowly crept into the room. "Joseph," said his master, "I want Mr. Ralph's papers."
"To-night, Sir Thomas?"
"Well;—yes, to-night. I ought to have told you when he went away, but I was thinking of things."
"So I was thinking of things," said Stemm, as he very slowly made his way into the other room, and, climbing up a set of steps which stood there, pulled down from an upper shelf a tin box—and with it a world of dust. "If you'd have said before that they'd be wanted, Sir Thomas, there wouldn't be such a deal of dry muck," said Stemm, as he put down the box on a chair opposite Sir Thomas's knees.
"And now where is the key?" said Sir Thomas. Stemm shook his head very slowly. "You know, Stemm;—where is it?"
"How am I to know, Sir Thomas? I don't know, Sir Thomas. It's like enough in one of those drawers." Then Stemm pointed to a certain table, and after a while slowly followed his own finger. The drawer was unlocked, and under various loose papers there lay four or five loose keys. "Like enough it's one of these," said Stemm.
"Of course you knew where it was," said Sir Thomas.
"I didn't know nothing at all about it," said Stemm, bobbing his head at his master, and making at the same time a gesture with his lips, whereby he intended to signify that his master was making a fool of himself. Stemm was hardly more than five feet high, and was a wizened dry old man, with a very old yellow wig. He delighted in scolding all the world, and his special delight was in scolding his master. But against all the world he would take his master's part, and had no care in the world except his master's comfort. When Sir Thomas passed an evening at Fulham, Stemm could do as he pleased with himself; but they were blank evenings with Stemm when Sir Thomas was away. While Sir Thomas was in the next room, he always felt that he was in company, but when Sir Thomas was away, all London, which was open to him, offered him no occupation. "That's the key," said Stemm, picking out one; "but it wasn't I as put it there; and you didn't tell me as it was there, and I didn't know it was there. I guessed—just because you do chuck things in there, Sir Thomas."
"What does it matter, Joseph?" said Sir Thomas.
"It does matter when you say I knowed. I didn't know—nor I couldn't know. There's the key anyhow."
"You can go now, Joseph," said Sir Thomas.
"Good night, Sir Thomas," said Stemm, retiring slowly, "but I didn't know, Sir Thomas—nor I couldn't know." Then Sir Thomas unlocked the box, and gradually surrounded himself with the papers which he took from it. It was past one o'clock before he again began to think what he had better do to put Ralph Newton on his legs, and to save him from marrying the breeches-maker's daughter. He sat meditating on that and other things as they came into his mind for over an hour, and then he wrote the following letter to old Mr. Newton. Very many years had passed since he had seen Mr. Newton—so many that the two men would not have known each other had they met; but there had been an occasional correspondence between them, and they were presumed to be on amicable terms with each other.
Southampton Buildings, 14th July, 186—.
Dear Sir—
I wish to consult you about the affairs of your heir and my late ward, Ralph Newton. Of course I am aware of the unfortunate misunderstanding which has hitherto separated you from him, as to which I believe you will be willing to allow that he, at least, has not been in fault. Though his life has by no means been what his friends could have wished it, he is a fine young fellow; and perhaps his errors have arisen as much from his unfortunate position as from any natural tendency to evil on his own part.