“I don’t see why there should be such restrictions among old friends,” said Edward, with an injured air. “Laura and I are like sister and brother.”
“Very likely, Ned, but then you see everybody knows you and Laura are not brother and sister, and I think there are a good many people in Hazlehurst who think that you feel something a good deal stronger than brotherly regard for her. If she and I were drowning, I know which of us you would try to save.”
“You can swim,” growled Edward, remembering Talleyrand’s famous answer. “Well, I suppose I must submit to fate. Miss Malcolm no doubt considers herself engaged to the mysterious heir, who does not seem in any hurry to begin his courtship. If old Treverton had bequeathed such a chance to me I should have seized upon my opportunity without an instant’s hesitation.”
“I admire the delicacy which prompts Mr. Treverton to keep in the background just at first,” said Celia.
“How do you know that it is delicacy which restrains him,” exclaimed Edward. “How do you know that it is not some entanglement—some degrading connection, perhaps—or at any rate a previous engagement of some kind which ties his hands, and hinders his advancement with Laura? No man, unless so constrained, would be besotted enough to neglect such an opportunity, or to hazard his chances of success. If he offends Laura, she is just the kind of girl to refuse him, fortune and all.”
“I don’t think she would do that, except upon very serious grounds,” said Celia. “Laura has a strong sense of duty, and she believes it her duty to her adopted father to assist in carrying out his wishes. I believe she would sacrifice her own inclination to that duty.”
“That’s going far,” said Edward, discontentedly, “I begin to think that she has fallen in love with this fellow, meteoric as was his appearance here.”
“He stayed nearly a fortnight,” remarked Celia, “and Laura saw him several times. I don’t mean to say that she is in love with him. She has too much common sense to fall in love in that rapid way—but I am sure she does not dislike him.”
“Oh, when love begins common sense ends. I dare say she is in love with him. Hasn’t she told you as much now, Celia? Girls like to talk about such things.”
“What do you know about girls?”
“Oh, nothing. I’ve got a sister who is one of the breed: a model always at hand to draw from. Come, now, Celia, be sisterly for once in your life. What has Laura told you about John Treverton?”
“Nothing. She is particularly reserved upon the subject. I know that it is a painful one for her, and I rarely approach it.”
“Well, he is a lucky dog. I never hated a fellow so much. I have an instinctive idea that he is a scoundrel.”
“Are not instinctive ideas convictions that jump with our own inclinations?” speculated Celia, philosophically. “I am heartily sorry for you, Ned dear, for I know you are fond of Laura, and it does seem hard to have her willed away from you like this. But seriously now, would you be pleased to marry her with no better portion than her own little income?”
“Six thousand in Consols,” said Edward, meditatively. “That would not go very far with a young man and woman of refined tastes. We might love each other ever so dearly, and be ever so happy together, but I’m afraid we should starve, Celia, and that our children’s only inheritance would be their legal claim on their own parish. I thought that wicked old man would leave her handsomely provided for.”
“You had no right to think that, knowing that he had pledged himself to leave her nothing.”
“Oh, there would always have been a way of evading that, I call his will absolutely shameful—to force a high-spirited girl to take a husband of his choosing—a fellow whom he had never seen when he made the stipulation.”
“He took care to see young Mr. Treverton before he died. I dare say if he had not been favourably impressed he would have altered his will at the last moment.”
This conversation took place nearly four months after Jasper Treverton’s death. The hedgerows were growing green; the birds had eaten the last of the crocuses; the violets were all in bloom in the shrubbery borders, the grass grew fast enough to require weekly shearing, and the Manor House garden was a pleasant place to walk in, full of budding trees and opening blossoms, and the songs of birds, telling each other rapturously that spring had come in earnest, and that winter days and a stony-hearted, frost-bound earth were things of the past.
Edward Clare believed himself the most ill-used of young men. He was good-looking—nay, according to the general judgment of his particular circle, remarkably handsome; he was cleverer and more accomplished than most young men of his age and standing. If he had done nothing as yet to distinguish himself it was not for lack of talent, he told himself, complacently. It was only because he had never yet put his shoulder to the wheel. He did not consider that duty strongly called upon every man to do his uttermost part in the labour of moving that mighty wheel. A clever young man, like himself, might stand on one side and watch other fellows toiling at the job, knowing that he could do it ever so much better if he only cared to try.
Four years ago, when he first went to Oxford, he had made up his mind that he was to be Laura Malcolm’s husband. Of course Jasper Treverton would leave her a handsome fortune, most likely his entire estate. There must be a dozen ways of evading that ridiculous oath. The old man might make over his property to Laura by deed of gift. He might leave it to trustees for her use and benefit. In some manner or other
