And then, with a few words about Mary’s presently coming up, he departed; while ‘That is too bad,’ was the general indignant outburst, even from Richard; from all but Dr. May himself.
‘He is quite right,’ he said. ‘Dear Spencer would be the first to say so. Richard, your church is his best monument, and you’ll not shut him out of your churchyard nor me either.’
‘Cheviot could not have meant—’ began Richard.
‘Yes, he did, I understood him, and I am glad you should have had it out now,’ said Dr. May, though not without a quivering lip. ‘Your mother has
Thus sweetly did he put aside what might have been so severe a shock; and he took extra pains to show his son-in-law his complete acquiescence both for the present and the future. Charles Cheviot expressed to Richard his great satisfaction in finding sentiment thus surmounted by sense, not perceiving that it was faith and love surmounting both.
Dr. Spencer’s only surviving relation was a brother’s son, who, on his arrival, proved to be an underbred, shrewd-looking man, evidently with strong prepossessions against the May family, whose hospitality he did not accept, consorting chiefly with ‘Bramshaw and Anderson.’ His disposition to reverse the arrangement for burying his uncle in ‘an obscure village churchyard,’ occasioned a reference to the will, drawn up two years previously. The executors were Thomas and Etheldred May, and it was marked on the outside that they were to have the sole direction of the funeral. Ethel, greatly astonished, but as much bewildered as touched, was infinitely relieved that this same day had brought a hurried note from Paris, announcing Tom’s intention of coming to attend the funeral. He would be able to talk to the angry and suspicious nephew, without, like his father, betraying either indignation or disgust.
Another person was extremely anxious for Tom’s arrival, namely, Sir Matthew Fleet, who, not a little to Dr. May’s gratification, came to show his respect to his old fellow-student; and arriving the evening before Tom, was urgent to know the probabilities of his appearance. An appointment in London was about to be vacant, so desirable in itself, and so valuable an introduction, that there was sure to be a great competition; but Sir Matthew was persuaded that with his own support, and an early canvass, Tom might be certain of success. Dr. May could not help being grateful and gratified, declaring that the boy deserved it, and that dear Spencer would have been very much pleased; and then he told Ethel that it was wonderful to see the blessing upon Maggie’s children; and went back, as usual, to his dear old Tate and Brady, with—
‘His house the seat of wealth shall be, An inexhausted treasury; His justice, free from all decay, Shall blessings to his heirs convey.’
And Ethel, within herself, hoped it was no disrespect to smile at his having so unconsciously turned away the blessing from the father’s to the mother’s side.
It was his great pride and pleasure that so many of Maggie’s children were round him to do honour to her old friend’s burial—three sons, and four daughters, and three sons-in-law. They all stood round the grave, as near as might be to the stone that Gertrude, as a child, had laid under his care, when his silver hair had mingled with her golden locks; and with them was a concourse that evidently impressed the nephew with a new idea of the estimation in which his uncle had been held.
Tom had travelled all night, and had arrived only just in time. Nobody was able to say a word to him before setting off; and almost immediately after the return, Sir Matthew Fleet seized upon him to walk up to the station with him, and, to the infinite disgust of the nephew, the reading of the will was thus delayed until the executor came back, extremely grave and thoughtful.
After all, Mr. Spencer had no available grievance. His uncle’s property was very little altogether, amounting scarcely to a thousand pounds, but the bulk was bequeathed to the nephew; to Aubrey May was left his watch, and a piece of plate presented to him on his leaving India; to Dr. May a few books; to Tom the chief of his library, his papers, notes, and instruments, and the manuscript of a work upon diseases connected with climate, on which he had been engaged for many years, but had never succeeded in polishing to his own fastidious satisfaction, or in coming to the end of new discoveries. To Etheldred, his only legacy was his writing-desk, with all its contents. And Mr. Spencer looked so suspicious of those contents, that Tom made her open it before him, and show that they were nothing but letters.
It had been a morning of the mixture of feelings and restless bustle, so apt to take place where the affection is not explained by relationship; and when the strangers were gone, and the family were once again alone, there was a drawing of freer breath, and the Doctor threw himself back in his chair, and indulged in a long, heavy sigh, with a weary sound in it.
‘Can I go anywhere for you, father?’ said Tom, turning to him with a kind and respectful manner.
‘Oh no—no, thank you,’ he said, rousing himself, and laying his hand on the bell, ‘I must go over to Overfield; but I shall be glad of the drive. Well, Dr. Tom, what did you say to Fleet’s proposal?’
‘I said I would come up to town and settle about it when I had got through this executor business.’
‘You always were a lucky fellow, Tom,’ said Dr. May, trying to be interested and sympathetic. ‘You would not wish for anything better.’
‘I don’t know, I have not had time to think about it yet,’ said Tom, pulling off his spectacles and pushing back his hair, with an action of sadness and fatigue.
‘Ah! it was not the best of times to choose for the communication; but it was kindly meant. I never expected to see Fleet take so much trouble for any one. But you are done up, Tom, with your night journey.’
‘Not at all,’ he answered, briskly, ‘if I can do anything for you. Could not I go down to the hospital?’
‘Why, if I were not to be back till five,’ began Dr. May, considering, and calling him into the hall to receive directions, from which he came back, saying, ‘There! now then, Ethel, we had better look over things, and get them in train.’
‘You are so tired, Tom.’
‘Not too much for that,’ he said. But it was a vain boast; he was too much fatigued to turn his mind to business requiring thought, though capable of slow, languid reading and sorting of papers.
Aubrey’s legacy was discovered with much difficulty. In fact, it had never been heard of, nor seen the light, since its presentation, and was at last found in a lumber closet, in a strong box, in Indian packing. It was a compromise between an epergne and a candelabrum, growing out of the howdah of an unfortunate elephant, pinning one tiger to the ground, and with another hanging on behind, in the midst of a jungle of palm-trees and cobras; and beneath was an elaborate inscription, so laudatory of Aubrey Spencer, M. D., that nobody wondered he had never unpacked it, and that it was yellow with tarnish—the only marvel was, that he had never disposed of it; but that it was likely to wait for the days when Aubrey might be a general and own a side-board.
