A Rich Man's Relatives Volume II Part 9

The prospectus was a work of art, and it was fortified by certificates from the greatest authorities. True, these authorities had not seen the metalliferous deposits--indeed no one could see them just then, buried as they were under drifts of frozen snow--but they were allowed to see Hammerstone's survey, and Hammerstone was a man of knowledge and character, whom even the most distinguished felt safe in endorsing, if the fee were sufficient. As the mind of practical science puts it--practical science is the science of making as much money out of as little knowledge as possible--to express another man's observations in finer and more taking language, is surely the highest compliment one can pay him, and the most emphatic manner of granting him our valuable indorsation. Hammerstone was immensely gratified to read in the prospectus the opinions of Professor Sesquioxide, of Boston, and other luminaries, his bigger brothers among the sons of knowledge, so minutely confirmatory of his own; but he wondered much as to when they had been called in, and he felt a little hurt that they should have been so near to him and Montreal without visiting him.

The public mind was judiciously educated up to the receptive point by a series of graduated rumours and paragraphs of ascending interest.

One may come to believe anything if it seems in sequence with what went before; therefore, when an a.s.sertion seems corroborated by others already accepted, and which yet appear to be in no way connected with it, the natural man accepts it at once. The newspapers swarmed with clippings from the latest mining sensations in Colorado, and following them would appear rumours of important mineralogical discoveries "nearer home." By-and-by there were descriptions of California bonanzas, followed by more rumours of vast metallic wealth at the very doors. Then an imaginative reporter received confidential information which he was not at liberty to divulge, but which he felt it a duty to his beloved public to hint at in various picturesque ways. He described gigantic ma.s.ses of virgin copper quarried from their beds with pre-historic wedges which still lay beside them in witness, and discussed the civilization of the ancient Mound-builders in the popular archaeological manner, still ringing the changes on the wealth of copper so near at hand. Finally, when people's minds were ready to believe, the prospectus of the Mining a.s.sociation of St. Euphrase appeared.

After the a.s.sociation's subscription lists had remained open only a few days they were suddenly closed, and it was announced that the capital was all subscribed. Then all the dilatory who had contemplated investing in a general sort of way, but had not done it, grew eager to hold shares, which they hurried to buy at a premium. It was afterwards said that in every instance it was Ralph Herkimer who was the seller, and that he only subscribed for the shares which he sold, after he had touched the premiums. But people are uncharitable, and if a man ever ceases to be rich, they are sure to recollect naughty things which they say he did in his time of prosperity.

Before the snow was gone, material and machinery had been collected on the ground, and there was a rise in the price of the stock.

When the snow went, operations began, and the stock rose higher, with inquiries for it from distant places, which sent the price bounding still higher and higher still.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE TIE OF KINDRED.

In those days--the days of Judith's visit--George Selby and his wife were always punctual in coming down to breakfast. It was their hour for undisturbed conversation and intercourse. The guests, unaccustomed to city gaiety and late hours, were still in their soundest sleep, when the clang of the breakfast bell would wake them to the knowledge that another day had begun, and they must drag themselves from between the blankets. As for Susan, owing to neuralgia or laziness, she always breakfasted in bed.

"Mary!" cried George eagerly, when they met one morning, about a week after Betsey's first ball. "It is needless to ask you if you have slept well. You look refreshed and revived as I have not seen you look for years and years. I have noticed a change for the better going on for these last two weeks, and this morning it almost seems as if the Mary of long ago were coming back again. The clouds are lifting, dearest, I do believe, and we shall know peace and quiet happiness yet again. It is wearing on to afternoon with us both now, and ours has been a sad, black, rainy day; but at least we have been together through it all, and that has been more than suns.h.i.+ne. And now if the rain but cease and the clouds break up, we may be blessed with a peaceful sunset and the serene twilight of old age, with the clear, pure brightness far off behind the hills waiting for us till we enter the eternal day."

George was a worthy, gentle soul, with yearnings true, if not powerful, towards the spiritual and poetic. Who, condemned to hammer scales into stupid little girls without ear or fingers, through all the years, could be expected to carry more of the golden but unpractical gift into hum-drum middle life?

Mary laid her hand upon his shoulder, leant her head upon his cheek, and her eyes grew moist. They were grey-haired people both, those two, but people do not cease to be foolish, my dear young friends--if it _is_ foolish, which I deny--when they cease to be young and handsome; that is, if they have not ceased to be good. Goodness is the salt, the preserver, the eternal spring, which can keep a heart from ever growing old. Egotism in youth, when all is fair, may s.h.i.+ne and glitter like a dainty varnish, but it dulls and hardens and cracks as the years go on, and becomes but the sorriest item in the general break-up and decay, when that sets in. Love only is immortal, a giver of life to the failing forces, like the olive tree in the prophet's vision, which supplied in continuous flow the oil to furnish the perpetual lamp.

Mary leaned up against her husband in a mute caress, and then drawing a long breath, sat down at the table to pour out his coffee. She was not accustomed to put her feelings into words. She had suffered far too long and too terribly for that. Had she been a woman of emotional utterance, she must have exhausted her sorrow or her life, whichever of the two were the weaker, long ago; but voice was wanting. She had held her peace, had borne and lived and suffered, till those about her had trembled for her reason; trembled, and yet in pity, at times, had almost hoped for her the fearful anodyne of madness; but she was strong of body as well as mind, she agonized in silence and lived on.

She poured out her husband's coffee, and, handing it, met his eyes still fastened on her face in earnest, happy love. "Yes," she said, replying to his still unanswered observation, "I have had a long delicious sleep, without a dream, or only one short sweet fancy before I woke, as if our baby were lying in my arms, as she lay that very last morning before we lost her. Oh, George! The delightfulness of the sound oblivious sleep I have enjoyed of late! No one can conceive it who has not gone through all these weary years. I had forgotten what refres.h.i.+ng sleep was like. It was dreadful to me to lie down at night and give myself up to cruel horrible dreams. You know how constantly I have wakened with a cry--always the same bad dream, yet always with a cruel difference in the horrors. Always the child in danger or in pain, destruction in every fearful shape impending, and I unable to reach, incapable of protecting her. I have always felt that she was alive and needed my care, and how I have yearned and prayed to get to her, G.o.d only knows. And now, George, it seems to me that G.o.d must have heard, and taken pity on me. It is well with her now. I seem to feel it. She is with G.o.d I do believe, and perhaps He lets her spirit come down and comfort me. At least I am very sure now that she is happy, and I feel resigned as a Christian woman should, in a way I have never been able to feel before."

"The company of your sister Judith has done you good, Mary. I have been wrong, and judged her harshly, I am afraid. She is a good woman I believe now, for all her queerness, and I should have thought of having her to stay with you long ere now. A fellow is so unthinkingly selfish, and I suppose I judged of your feelings by my own. You are my all, you see, and I fear I grudge sharing you with others. But it was selfish in me to forget that you and she are sisters, and must have many feelings in common. In any case I owe her a debt now, and I shall never think a thought against her again as long as I live."

"You have no occasion to blame yourself, George. I do not imagine it is owing to her visit that I feel so calmed; though certainly I am happy to have her. We never had much sympathy, she and I. The difference in our age and disposition was too great. I was always fonder of Susan. No! It is not that. Her coming brought me no consolation, I am sure. I do not think I ever pa.s.sed more miserable nights than those two first after her coming. But then there came a change, a peace and consolation which I cannot describe or explain, and I do not understand. It is just a blind unreasoned certainty that all is well, and I want no more. The Good G.o.d has heard me at last, and taken pity on a miserable mother. He has taken my darling to Himself, I surely believe, and she is safe at last in the Everlasting Arms. Oh George, I have been wicked to repine, and distress you as I have done, with my ignorant complainings. She is safer far, I recognize it now, than she could have been had she been left in such care as mine. No! It is the Great Consoler who has pitied me and sent me comfort; such distraction as poor Judith could have brought would have been of little avail. That little girl, Betsey's cousin, seems to bring a far more soothing influence with her than Judith or Susan, or any one I ever met, but you. There seems a peacefulness in the air when she is by, that rests my weary, hungry heart. It does me good to sit and look when she comes in, and to hear her talk. She is a darling little girl, and I could feel it in my heart to envy the people she belongs to. She is an orphan, poor thing, they tell me. She must be very near the age our Edith would have been if she had been spared to us," and the poor lady wiped her eyes and sighed.

"You mean Muriel Stanley. Yes, she is a dear little girl, or at least she was till very lately; but she is opening out into young womanhood now, as they all do, the pretty buds that I am so fond of. I see the dawning woman more clearly every week, and I shall soon be losing her.

She is so pretty, you see, and those wretched boys see it, too, and tell her it. Why is there not a Herod in Montreal to kill off the sprouting striplings? They spoil all my little maids for me, just as I get fond of them, when they are at their freshest and sweetest; turn their pretty heads with nonsense and make them think themselves grown up; and then good-bye to the poor music-master. Your young nephew--Ralph's son--has something to answer for in this case, the rogue. I have noticed him lurking round our gate more than once, and have kept her an extra fifteen minutes out of pure malice. There is always some one, and they make one feel so old."

Mary smiled, as her husband meant she should, and then the door opened, and Judith and her niece appeared together. The scenes was changed into one of bustle and small talk, fumigated with the smoke of coffee and hot broiled fish.

"You were late of getting home last night," said George. "I was so blind sleepy that I could scarcely see you when I let you in. But pray don't apologize. I am glad of it. One wants to see one's country friends entertained when they come to town, and, what with my sprains, I feel conscience-stricken at having been able to do nothing to amuse you myself. I hope you spent a pleasant evening?"

"Oh, yes, Martha always does that kind of thing well. She's a good hostess."

"And, Miss Betsey? Were you much admired?"

Betsey gave her head a little toss with a Venus Victrix glance--_a la_ Bunce, that is. The marble G.o.ddess in the Louvre looks straight out of level eyes, too proud for petty wiles; but Betsy's glance came from the corners. She was arch, you see, or thought so, and the certainty of conquest was all that she had in common with her divine prototype.

"I wore a nice new dress, Mr. Selby, a present from Aunt Martha--cousin, I suppose I should call her, seeing she is auntie's niece; but she is too old to be a cousin to _me_. I think I shall call her simply Martha, I am sure she will not mind. She would like it, I do believe, only----" and Betsey began to change colour.

"Only?" said George, who had been looking her in the face, with a laugh. "Only it would be awkward to be heard calling one's mother-in-law by her Christian name, and it is not easy to get out of a habit of speaking--is that it?"

Betsey grew crimson and bent over her plate.

"George! You are too bad altogether," said Mary.

"Mr. Selby, you are a dreadful quiz," said Betsey, not at all displeased. "But about my dress. I was quite disappointed to find you were not at hand as we went out, I wanted you to admire it.

Beautifully made. It must have cost a lot of money. Black _tulle_, with any quant.i.ty of Marshal Niell roses, and just a morsel of scarlet salvia here and there to light it up. The salvia was my own idea, and an immense improvement. The dressmaker said all she could against it, and a deal about severe simplicity; but I hate simpletons of all kinds, and I fear my taste is not severe at all. However, it was I who was to wear the gown, so I had my way. I would not have chosen black myself, but M----" (with a returning flush) "Mrs. Herkimer said black, so what could I do? I am fond of warm colouring myself, and a good deal of it. That is why I got my geranium poplin; but one wants a change, and the _tulle_ is that. Only it is so quiet, n.o.body would guess how expensive it is."

"I would pin a card with the price on behind. People who wear ready-made clothing have been known to appear in public so decorated, when the shopman forgot to remove his ticket. It attracts a good deal of attention. All for $15 say, or your choice for $20."

"It cost a great deal more than that, Mr. Selby," answered Betsey, with just a touch of crossness in the tone, as she began to recognize that she was being chaffed. "Shows how little _you_ know about ladies'

wear," she added, as Selby rose to go into another room and give her music lesson to Muriel Stanley, who could be heard arriving.

The ladies gathered round the fire and proceeded to talk over the events of the party. Betsey sat in the middle in front of the blaze, and as opportunity offered, strove to enlighten the inexperience of her elders in matters of "style" and good behaviour, with items drawn chiefly from her recollections of "G.o.dey's Magazine," which were copious, and sometimes startling, and ill.u.s.trated by reminiscences of festivity at St. Euphrase, in which a certain Mr. Joe Webb appeared to have borne a prominent part. She was still in full career when Selby returned, introducing Muriel Stanley, whom for his wife's sake he had persuaded to come and shake hands with her cousin at that early hour.

Mary was leaning back in her chair, and had armed herself with patience to endure the torrent of Betsey's talk, which needed only an occasional exclamation of dissent, easily overborne, from Judith, to keep it running in the full turbulence of its muddy flow. No word of hers was needed, and her thoughts had drifted away into their accustomed channels. Her husband noted the flush of pleasure and the kindling of her eye at sight of the stranger, who also seemed drawn to the invalid, and who, in the rearranging of the party, dropped into a low seat by her side. Unconsciously, as it seemed, Mary's hand was laid on the girl's shoulder, and then, as recollecting itself, drew back, to steal again involuntarily towards her, and touch her hair.

Muriel, too, unwittingly seemed to lean towards the other, and accept contentedly the unconscious caress; and George, regarding them, could not but wonder how the girl seemed drawn to his wife, so nearly a stranger to her, even in the presence of the others whom she saw so constantly in the country. It showed the tenderness of a womanly heart, he thought, and its overflowing sympathy, thus silently to go out to the stricken invalid, and he loved and admired his favourite pupil more than he had ever done before.

The loquacious Betsey had other things to think of, things to speak about, and to speak about a great deal. The subject of the party was taken up again from the beginning, to be gone all over once more, while Judith held her hands out to the blaze to s.h.i.+eld her eyes, and Mary sat mutely happy, she knew not why, gently stroking the hair plait with her finger.

"You were not at Mrs. Herkimer's party last night, Muriel? and I did not see your aunts."

"No, they were not there. Aunt Matilda rarely goes to a dance, except a juvenile one, when I am invited. I am not out yet, you know."

"To be sure not, Muriel; I know it. Time enough, my dear," said this experienced woman of the world. "Your time will come quite soon enough, and I hope you will enjoy it. Ah!----" and she heaved an ecstatic sigh, "It was a lovely party. So many gentlemen! And such a floor! I put in a heavenly time, Muriel. I wish you could have seen it. I wish you could have seen me in my new ball-dress--a present, you know--from auntie's niece--by Mme. Jupon! no less--just too elegant for anything. Quite subdued, you know--black _tulle_--much draped.

Too subdued, if anything, for my taste--you know I like things cheerful--but awfully sweet. Garnitures of roses--large Marshal Niell roses--dollars and dollars' worth of them--frightfully expensive--and real chaste. I saw the people asking each other who that elegantly-dressed person could be, and my card was filled up just like winking. There was, let me see, there was Mr.---- But what of that?

You are not out yet. You could not be expected to know any of them.

But it was lovely. Oh, how some of those dear men do valse!"

"Betsey!" said Judith reprovingly, "how you do run on. It is scarcely feminine."

Betsey looked not well pleased, and a retort was rising to her lips, when she caught sight of Selby watching her, and the twinkle of "impertinent" amus.e.m.e.nt, as she thought it, in his eye was too much.

It scattered her forces and snapped the thread of her discourse.

"There is a tobogganing party to-night, Betsey" said Muriel, now that there came a lull; "that is, there is always one these moonlight nights; but we are going to-night. Would you care to come? Aunt Penelope will be so pleased if you and Betsey will dine with us, Mrs.

Bunce, and she can go in our party. Aunt Matilda is going. You will meet all your St. Euphrase friends, Betsey. Mdlle. Rouget will be there, I understand."

"I scarcely know the girl, and she don't want to know me, so that is no inducement. However, we'll go, auntie? I think we had better go.

It's home to St. Euphrase tomorrow, you know, with lots of time for sedateness and parish duties. Let's enjoy ourselves all we can while we're here."

And so it was agreed.

CHAPTER IX.

TOBOGGANING.