AS soon as the funeral was over came the reading of the will. On the outside was the request, written in Mr. Romaine's own hand, that it be read by Chessingham, whom he appointed his executor in case he died in America—for in his own country there was scarcely a person with whom Mr. Romaine was upon terms of any close association. The request was also made that Colonel Corbin and Miss Letty Corbin be present when the will was read, and any one else that Chessingham desired.
On the day following the one when Mr. Romaine had been laid in the old burying-ground beside his fathers, Chessingham wrote a note to Colonel and Miss Corbin, inviting their presence upon a certain day at Shrewsbury, and although Mr. Romaine had not mentioned any of his numerous tribes of nephews and nieces, Chessingham scrupulously invited them all. Farebrother, who found it very pleasant lingering at Corbin Hall as Letty's lover, of course did not accompany the Corbins to Shrewsbury. Like Letty, he would have been pleased to have money "honestly come by," so to speak; but the idea of having it under the circumstances from Mr. Romaine appeared to him as undesirable as it did to her.
"And I tell you now," said Letty, firmly, to Farebrother, as he stood on the old porch in the wintry sunshine waiting for Dad Davy (who superseded Tom Battercake on important occasions like this) with the ramshackly carriage; "I tell you now, I don't want that money, and I shall at once consult a lawyer to see if it can't be turned over to the people it rightfully belongs to. It would make me wretched to know of those poor people—I know how poor they are and out at elbows—actually in want, while I should have what was their grandfather's and their uncle's."
"All right," answered Farebrother, "and I would prefer that you should have the whole thing settled before we are married, so you can act as a perfectly free agent. As for me, if I can have you," etc., etc., etc.—which may be interpreted in the language of lovers.
Arrived at Shrewsbury, it was seen that every relative of Mr. Romaine had accepted Chessingham's invitation and was on hand. Letty had to run the gantlet of their hostile eyes as she entered the library, for the great affair had already leaked out. The room looked strangely suggestive of Mr. Romaine. Letty could scarcely persuade herself that at any moment his slight figure and sparkling black eyes would not appear.
Mrs. Chessingham and Ethel were in the room by special request of Colonel Corbin, who thought it a mark of respect. When they were all assembled, Chessingham, who had worn a very peculiar look, began to speak in the midst of a solemn silence.
"As you are perhaps aware, our late friend, Mr. Romaine, desired me to act as his executor in case he died in this country—a contingency which he seemed to think likely when he came here, less than a year ago. In pursuance of my duties, I have examined his papers, which are very few, and find everything concerning him to have been in perfect order for many years past, so that if he had died at any moment there would have been no difficulty in settling his affairs. But I soon discovered a very important fact—which is,"—here he spoke with deliberate emphasis,—"that instead of Mr. Romaine possessing a large fortune, as the world has always supposed, he had invested everything he had in—annuities—which gave him a very large income—but he left but little behind him."
A kind of groan went round among the poor relations. Letty, who understood quickly what was meant, felt dazed; she did not know whether she was glad or sorry.
Chessingham exhibited some papers, showing, in Mr. Romaine's writing, the amounts of various annuities, which aggregated a magnificent income. Then came a list of his actual property, which consisted chiefly of the Shrewsbury place and the Virginia lands, but which were heavily mortgaged. His personal property was remarkably small; Mr. Romaine had always boasted his freedom from impedimenta. And then began the reading of the will. It was the same brief document that Chessingham and Miss Maywood had witnessed. Some of the nieces and nephews got a few thousand dollars. Chessingham got his douceur, Miss Maywood got the diamonds in a codicil witnessed by Bridge and Dodson, and Letty was left "residuary legatee" by a person who had nothing to give. When she walked out of the Shrewsbury house she was not any richer than when she went in it. But before that Colonel Corbin had risen and in a very dignified and forcible manner read the correspondence that had passed between Mr. Romaine and himself and Letty, which showed conclusively that they were in no way parties to Mr. Romaine's scheme, but rather victims of it. Then Chessingham, replying to a formal question of the Colonel's, admitted that there would be in all probability not enough property to pay the legacies in full, and the Colonel and Letty retired, having no further interest in Mr. Romaine's affairs.
When they got home Farebrother ran down the steps to meet them.
"I sha'n't get a penny, and I'm glad of it," cried out Letty, from the carriage, before Farebrother could open the door.
"Wait until you have struggled along in New York on four or five thousand a year before you say that," answered Farebrother in a gay whisper which quite escaped the Colonel, who knew, however, how the land lay.
Farebrother stayed two weeks altogether at Corbin Hall on that visit; and before he left Sir Archibald Corbin arrived.
The status of affairs looked decidedly unpleasant to Sir Archy. After he had been there a day or two, he went for a walk with Letty in the woods—the very path they had taken that autumn evening two months before—and Sir Archy presently demanded to know if she was engaged to Farebrother.
"What a very singular inquiry," replied Letty, haughtily. "Surely you can't expect me to answer it."
"I would scarcely expect you to hesitate about denying it if it were not true—and if it were true, and you kept it a secret, it would be a very grave reflection on you, which I should be loath to entertain," responded Sir Archy, with equal haughtiness.
"A reflection on me to be engaged to Mr. Farebrother," cried Letty, whirling around on him.
"I meant, of course, secretly," answered Sir Archy, stiffly.
"Do you mean to say that I would be guilty of the shocking indelicacy of proclaiming my engagement to the world—if I were engaged to Mr. Farebrother—as if I had just landed a big fish?"
"Our ideas of delicacy differ widely. There seems to me an indelicacy in a secret engagement."
Sir Archy was very angry—but Letty was simply boiling with rage. Both were right from their respective points of view, but neither had the slightest understanding of the other.
After that there was no further staying at Corbin Hall for Sir Archy. He escorted Letty to the door, and then tramped off to Shrewsbury and sent for his luggage.
The Chessinghams remained at the Romaine place for the present, awaiting their speedy return to England.
Letty went into the house, nearly crying with rage. Farebrother, who was to leave the next day, met her and received the account, red hot, of Sir Archy's rude remarks, with shouts of laughter which very much offended Letty.
"I don't see anything to laugh at," she said, with pretty sullenness.
"I see everything to laugh at," answered Farebrother, going off again. He did not further explain the joke to Letty, who never quite fully comprehended it.
Sir Archy, stalking along toward Shrewsbury, smarting under his disappointment—for he really admired Letty, and had fully meant to offer her the chance of becoming Lady Corbin—yet felt a sort of secret relief. Letty was the soul of bright purity, but as Sir Archy philosophically argued, no matter how right people's characters may be, if their ideas are radically wrong, it sooner or later affects their characters.
"And that fatal want of prudence," reasoned this English-minded gentleman, "this recklessness concerning her relations with men, is a most grave consideration. She appears totally unable to take a serious view of anything in the relations of young men and women. Life seems to be to her one long flirtation. And she may, of course, be expected to keep this up after she is married. On the whole, although a fascinating creature, I should call it a dangerous experiment to marry her."
So thought Sir Archy concerning Letty, who was of a type that is apt to develop into the most cloying domesticity.
Then his thoughts wandered to Ethel Maywood. He was too sincere and too earnest a man to cast his heart immediately at Ethel's feet—but something in his glance that very night made Ethel and the Chessinghams think that perhaps, in the end, Miss Maywood's name might be Lady Corbin.
The first step toward this followed some days after. Sir Archy had continued to stay at Shrewsbury, much to Colonel Corbin's chagrin. He had divined that there had been a falling out of some sort between Letty and Sir Archy—but he was quite unable to get at the particulars. Each professed a willingness to make up, and upon Sir Archy's paying a formal visit at Corbin Hall, Letty came down to see him and they were stiffly polite. But their misunderstanding seemed, as it was, deep rooted. Letty felt a profound displeasure with a man who could, even by implication, accuse her of indelicacy—and Sir Archy had grave doubts upon the score of Letty's knowledge of good form, to put it mildly.
It was on this subject that he grew confidential with Ethel, and made the longest speech of his life.
"You see," he said, "at first I found those American young ladies who imitate English girls rather a bore, as most of us do. When we go in for an English girl, we like the real thing—sweet, genuine, and wholesome. But at least the ideas of these pseudo-English girls are correct. They are not flirts"—Sir Archy classed flirts as the feminine form of barnburners and horse thieves—"and there 's nothing clandestine in their way of arranging marriages. They are quite candid and correct in that matter. They receive the attentions of men properly, and when an engagement is made, it is duly and promptly announced. But my cousin, Miss Corbin, has the most extraordinary notions on the subject of the proprieties. She goes according to the rule of contrary. She thinks it no harm to make eyes at every man she sees, without caring a button about any one of them—and an engagement is a thing to be concealed as if it were something to be ashamed of. I confess it puzzles me."
"And it puzzles me, too," replied Ethel. "Of course I know how sincerely high minded Miss Corbin is, but, like you, I can't reconcile myself to her peculiar notions. Do you remember the evening we went to the theater in New York and she wore that astonishing white gown?"
"Yes—and uncommonly pretty she looked. But it was bad form—decidedly bad form—and she never seemed to suspect it. My cousin is charming, but unusual and unaccountable."
Which Miss Maywood felt a profound satisfaction in hearing.
It was a month or two before the Chessinghams sailed. Although Mr. Romaine's affairs were so well arranged, the sale of the landed property could not take place at once, and Chessingham concluded to return to England, and come back in a year's time to settle up the small estate. The more he looked into it, the more convinced he was that Mr. Romaine's residuary legatee would get nothing, and that Mr. Romaine knew it; and his object was merely that contrary impulse and the natural perversity and desire to disconcert people which always gave him acute delight.
Colonel Corbin and Letty were sincerely sorry to part from the Chessinghams, but Letty bore the coming privation of Miss Maywood's society with the utmost fortitude. When they went over to say good-by on an early spring afternoon, Letty noticed a peculiarly joyous look on Ethel's fair face. In a little while she proposed a walk in the old-fashioned garden. The two girls strolled together down the box-edged walk, and passed under the quaint old arbors, heavy with the yellow jessamine, just beginning then to show the faintly budding leaves. There was something melancholy in the scene. The place had been deserted for so long—and it was now for sale, with the prospect of soon passing into other hands. The graveyard, with its high brick wall, was just below the garden, and, although she could not see it, Letty was conscious of a new white tombstone there with Mr. Romaine's name and "aged 58" engraved upon it—which last had caused Colonel Corbin much dissatisfaction. But Chessingham preferred to carry out what he knew to be Mr. Romaine's wishes in the matter, and believed that his ghost would have walked had his real age been proclaimed upon his monument.
As soon as the two girls were well in the garden, Ethel began, with a glowing face:
"I have had great happiness lately."
"Have you?" asked Letty, sympathetically. "What is it?"
"I am engaged to Sir Archibald Corbin," said Ethel, looking into Letty's face with a bright smile. Letty was so shocked by Miss Maywood's candor that she stood quite still, and said "Oh!" in a grieved voice, which Miss Maywood took to mean regret at having lost the prize.
"As everybody knows you are engaged to Mr. Farebrother," continued Ethel, still smiling, and twisting off a twig of syringa that was at hand, "you can't grudge me my good fortune."
Grudge her her good fortune! And "everybody" knowing she was engaged to Farebrother, when she had not breathed a word of it outside her own family, albeit she had half her trousseau finished! Letty was so scandalized by Miss Maywood's brazen assurance, as she regarded it, that she could only say, coldly:
"I do not understand how 'everybody' can know that I am engaged to Mr. Farebrother. Certainly I have never mentioned it, and I am sure that he has n't."
"That 's only your odd Southern way," answered Ethel, disapprovingly.
Curiosity got the better of Letty's disgust, and she asked, "How long have you and my cousin been engaged?"
"Only to-day," calmly replied Ethel. "Reggie brought the letter from the postoffice this morning, and I answered it at once. I also wrote to England, in order to catch the next steamer. Sir Archy is in New York, and won't get my letter for two days perhaps. Reggie and Gladys and I have talked over the engagement a little this afternoon. I shall be married very quietly in the country—we have an uncle who is a clergyman, and he has a nice parish, and will be glad to have me married from the rectory—and Reggie and Gladys very sensibly don't expect me to marry a baronet from their London lodgings. Sir Archy was very explicit in his letter about our future plans. He is willing to spend a month in London this season, but he has been away so much he feels it necessary to be at Fox Court in June—and he has taken a place in Scotland from the 12th of August."
"But suppose you did n't care to go to Scotland from the 12th of August? And suppose you wanted to spend more than a month in London?" asked Letty, much scandalized by these cut and dried proceedings.
"Of course I should not make the slightest objection to any of Sir Archy's plans," replied Ethel, wonderingly.
"And he must have assumed a good deal," suddenly cried Letty, bursting out laughing.
"He only assumed that I would act as any other sensible girl would," replied Ethel, calmly. "Sir Archy is a baronet of good family, suitable age, and excellent estate. What more could a girl—and a girl in my position—want?"
"Nothing in the world, I fancy," answered Letty, laughing still more; and when the two girls had their last interview they misunderstood and disesteemed each other more than at their first.
Driving home through the odorous dusk, in the chaise by the Colonel's side, Letty pondered over the remarkable ways of some people. The idea of a man dictating his plans to a woman before he married her—or after, for that matter. Farebrother had asked her what she would like, and their plans were made solely and entirely by Letty. "But I think," she reflected, as she laid her pretty head back in the chaise, "that I would do whatever he asked me to do—because, after all, he is twice the man that my cousin Archy is, and deserves to be loved twice as much—" and "he" meant Farebrother, who was, at that very moment, working hard for Letty in his office on a noisy New York thoroughfare. And when his work was done, he turned for refreshment to a photograph of her which he kept in that breast pocket reserved for such articles, and gazed fondly at her face in its starlike purity—and then smiled. He never looked at Letty or thought of her that, along with the most tender respect, he did not feel like smiling; and Letty never could and never did understand why it was that Farebrother found her such an amusing study.