The Hallam Succession

Richard fully believed the dying man. He stooped to his face and said, cheerfully, "You will not go alone then, dear uncle; I am glad for your sake!"

"Ay; it's nearly time to go. It's a bit sudden at last; but I'm ready. I wish Antony hed got here; tell them to come, and to bring t' little lad."

There was no disputing the change in the face, the authority of the voice. Gently they gathered around him, and Elizabeth laid the sleeping child on a pillow by his side. Richard saw him glance at the chubby little hand stretched out, and he lifted it to the squire's face. The dying man kissed it, and smilingly looked at Elizabeth. Then he let his eyes wander to Richard and his daughter-in-law.

"Good-bye, all!" he whispered, faintly, and almost with the pleasant words upon his lips he went away.

In a few hours the Christmas waits came singing through the park, and the Christmas bells filled the air with jubilant music; but Squire Henry Hallam had passed far beyond the happy clamor. He had gone home to spend the Christmas feast with the beloved who were waiting for him; with the just made perfect; with the great multitude which no man can number.

CHAPTER VIII

"We are here to fight the battle of life, not to shirk it."

"The last days of my life until to-day,
What were they, could I see them on the street
Lie as they fell. Would they be ears of wheat
Sown once for food, but trodden into clay?
Or golden coins squandered and still to pay?"

"The only way to look bravely and prosperously forward is never to look back."

Antony arrived at Hallam about an hour after the squire's death. He was not a man of quick affections, but he loved his father. He was grieved at his loss, and he was very anxious as to the disposition of the estate. It is true that he had sold his birthright, but yet he half expected that both his father and sister would at the last be opposed to his dispossession. The most practical of men on every other subject, he yet associated with his claim upon Hallam all kinds of romantic generosities. He felt almost sure that, when the will came to be read, he would find Hallam left to him, under conditions which he could either fulfill or set aside. It seemed, after all, a preposterous thing to leave a woman in control of such a property when there were already two male heirs. And Hallam had lately grown steadily upon his desires. He had not found money-making either the pleasant or easy process he had imagined it would be; in fact, he had had more than one great disappointment to contend against.

As the squire had foreseen, his marriage with Lady Evelyn had not turned out well for him in a financial way. Lord Eltham, within a year after it, found a lucrative position in the colonies for his son George, and advised his withdrawal from the firm of "Hallam & Eltham." The loss of so much capital was a great blow to the young house, and he did not find in the Darragh connection any equivalent. No one could deny that Antony's plans were prudent, and dictated by a far-seeing policy; but perhaps he looked too far ahead to rightly estimate the contingencies in the interval. At any rate, after the withdrawal of George Eltham, it had been, in the main with him, a desperate struggle, and undoubtedly, Lord Eltham, by the very negation of his manner, by the raising of an eye-lash, or the movement of a shoulder, had made the struggle frequently harder than it ought to have been.

Yet Antony was making a brave fight for his position; if he could hold on, he might compel success. People in this age have not the time to be persistently hostile. Lord Eltham might get into power; a score of favorable contingencies might arise; the chances for him were at least equal to those against him. Just at this time his succession to the Hallam estate might save him. He was fully determined if it did come into his power never to put an acre of it in danger; but it would represent so much capital in the eyes of the men with whom he had to count sovereigns.

And in his suspense he was half angry with Elizabeth. He thought she must divine his feelings, and might say a word which would relieve them, if she chose. He watched Richard jealously. He was sure that Richard would be averse to his future wife relinquishing any of her rights, and he could scarcely restrain the bitterness of his thoughts when he imagined Richard master of Hallam. And Richard, quite innocent of any such dream, preserved a calmness of manner, which Antony took to be positive proof of his satisfaction with affairs.

At length the funeral was over, and the will of the late squire made known. It was an absolute and bitter disappointment to Antony. "A good-will remembrance" of L1,000 was all that was left him; excepting the clause which enjoined Elizabeth to resell Hallam to him for L50,000, "if it seem reasonable and right so to do." Elizabeth was in full possession and her father had taken every precaution to secure her rights, leaving her also practically unfettered as to the final disposition of the property.

But her situation was extremely painful, and many openly sympathized with Antony. "To leave such a bit o' property as Hallam to a lass!" was against every popular tradition and feeling. Antony was regarded as a wronged man; and Richard as a plotting interloper, who added to all his other faults the unpardonable one of being a foreigner, "with a name that no Yorkshireman iver did hev?" This public sympathy, which he could see in every face and feel in every hand-shake, somewhat consoled Antony for the indifference his wife manifested on the subject.

"If you sold your right, you sold it," she said, coldly; "it was a strange thing to do, but then you turn every thing into money."

But to Elizabeth and Richard he manifested no ill-will. "Both of them might yet be of service to him;" for Antony was inclined to regard every one as a tool, which, for some purpose or other, he might want in the future.

He went back to London an anxious and disappointed man. There was also in the disappointment an element of humiliation. A large proportion of his London friends were unaware of his true position; and when, naturally enough, he was congratulated on his supposed accession to the Hallam property, he was obliged to decline the honor. There was for a few days a deal of talk in the clubs and exchanges on the subject, and many suppositions which were not all kindly ones. Such gossip in a city lasts but a week; but, unfortunately, the influence is far more abiding. People ceased to talk of the Hallam succession, but they remembered it, if brought into business contact with Antony, and it doubtless affected many a transaction.

In country places a social scandal is more permanent and more personally bitter. Richard could not remain many days ignorant of the dislike with which he was regarded. Even Lord Eltham, in this matter, had taken Antony's part. "Squire Hallam were always varry queer in his ways," he said; "but it beats a', to leave a property like Hallam to a lass. Whativer's to come o' England if t' land is put under women? I'd like to know that!"

"Ay; and a lass that's going to wed hersel' wi' a foreign man. I reckon nowt o' her. Such like goings on don't suit my notions, Eltham."

Just at this point in the conversation Richard passed the gossiping squires. He raised his hat, but none returned the courtesy. A Yorkshireman has, at least, the merit of perfect honesty in his likes and dislikes; and if Richard had cared to ask what offense he had given, he would have been told his fault with the frankest distinctness.

But Richard understood the feeling, and could afford to regard it tolerantly. "With their education and their inherited prejudices I should act the same," he thought, "and how are they to know that I have positively refused the very position they suspect me of plotting to gain?"

But he told Elizabeth of the circumstance, and upon it based the conversation as to their future, which he had been anxiously desirous to have. "You must not send me away again, love, upon a general promise. I think it is my right to understand clearly what you intend about Hallam, and how soon you will become my wife."

She answered with a frank affection that delighted him: "We must give one year to my father's memory; then, Richard, come for me as soon as you desire."

"Say twelve months hence."

"I will be waiting for you."

"You will go with me to New Orleans?"

"I will go with you wherever you go. Your God shall be my God; your home, my home, Richard."

"My dear Elizabeth! I am the proudest and happiest man in the world!"

"And I, Richard; am I not happy, also? I have chosen you freely, I love you with all my heart."

"Have you considered well what you give up?"

"I have put you against it. My gain is incalculably greater than my loss."

"What will you do about Hallam?"

"I shall hold Hallam for Antony; and if he redeem it honorably, no one will rejoice more truly than I shall. If he fail to do this, I will hold it for Antony's son. I most solemnly promised my father to save Hallam for Hallam, if it was possible to do so wisely. He told me always to consult with Whaley and with you; and he has left all to our honor and our love."

"I will work with you, Elizabeth. I promised your father I would."

"I told Antony that I only held the estate for him, or his; but he did not believe me."

"When I come for you, what is to be done with it?"

"Whaley will take charge of it. The income will be in the meantime lawfully ours. Father foresaw so many 'ifs' and contingencies, that he preferred to trust the future welfare of Hallam to us. As events change or arise, we must meet them with all the wisdom that love can call forth."

Perhaps, considering all things, Richard had, after this explanation, as sure a hope for his future as he could expect. He left Hallam full of happy dreams and plans, and as soon as he reached his home began the improvements which were to make it beautiful for his wife. It had its own charm and fitness; its lofty rooms, furnished in cane and Indian matting; its scented dusk, its sweet breezes, its wealth of flowers and foliage. Whatever love could do to make it fair Richard did; and it pleased him to think that his wife would come to it in the spring of the year, that the orange-trees would be in bloom to meet her, and the mocking-birds be pouring out their fiery little hearts in melodious welcomes.

Elizabeth was just as happy in her preparations; there was a kind of mystery and sacredness about them, for a thoughtful woman is still in her joy, and not inclined to laughter or frivolity. But happy is the man whose bride thus dreams of him, for she will bring into his home and life the repose of a sure affection, the cheerfulness of a well-considered purpose. Their correspondence was also peculiarly pleasant.

Elizabeth threw aside a little of her reserve. She spoke freely to Richard of all her plans and fears and hopes. She no longer was shy in admitting her affection for him, her happiness in his presence, her loneliness without him. It was easy for Richard to see that she was gladly casting away every feeling that stood between them.

One morning, at the end of October, Elizabeth put on her mantle and bonnet and went to see Martha Craven. She walked slowly, as a person walks who has an uncertain purpose. Her face had a shadow on it; she sighed frequently, and was altogether a different Elizabeth from the one who had gone, two days before, the same road with quick, firm tread and bright, uplifted face. Martha saw her coming, and hasted to open the gate; but when Elizabeth perceived that Ben's wife was within, she said, "Nay, Martha, I don't want to stay. Will you walk back part of the way with me?"

"Ay, for sure! I'll nobbut get my shawl, Miss Hallam. I was turning thee over i' my mind when, I saw thee coming. Is there aught wrong?"

"Why do you ask, Martha?"

"Nay, I'm sure I can't tell; only I can see fine that thou ar'n't same as thou was yesterday."

They were just entering the park, and Elizabeth stood musing while Martha closed the gates. Then, after walking a few yards, she said, "Martha, do you believe the dead can speak to the living?"

"Ay, I do. If t' living will hear, t' dead will speak. There's good men—and John Wesley among 'em—who lived w' one foot i' this world, and one in t' other. I would think man or woman hed varry little o' t' next world about 'em, who hed nivver seen or heard any thing from it. Them that hev sat weeping on their bedside at midnight—them that hev prayed death away from t' cradle side—them that hev wrestled a' night long, as Jacob did, they know whether t' next world visits this world or not. Hev you seen aught, Miss Hallam?"

"I have seen my father, Martha. Indeed I have."