Chapter XLVI: Public Opinion

Andrew would not stay at Brackenburn even for the night. He could not endure the sight of his grandson again, until he had readjusted his ideas and schemes, and had reconciled himself to his terrible disappointment. Philip drove him to the station, doing his best to comfort and cheer him, but he reached Apley the next day, after a long night's journey, a broken-spirited and embittered old man.

Though this grandson of his could never be the fine English gentleman he had been dreaming about, still Andrew was resolved there should be no infringement of his birthright. Though he could never attain to even a faint resemblance of Philip and Hugh, yet he was the eldest son, the firstborn; and if the law of entail meant anything in England, it must secure the inheritance to Martin. He laid the whole case, as far as he knew the circumstances, before a firm of respectable solicitors in the nearest large town, and was assured that if the next heir was of sound mind, there was no doubt that he must succeed to Mr. Martin's entailed estates. But was he sure that he was of sound mind? That was the question. The description he gave of his grandson favored an opposite conclusion.

It was a question that Andrew could not answer satisfactorily, even to himself. Possibly the mind was there, but it was altogether undeveloped. The life Martin had passed through was that of a cruelly treated brute, cowering under cold and hunger, neglect, and oppression, and hatred. He possessed scarcely more intelligence than an intelligent dog. This, then, would be the loophole through which Sidney would escape from the net he had woven for himself. He would evade doing justice to Sophy's son by treating him as an idiot or a madman.

Day after day Andrew went about the neighborhood, for a circle of ten or twelve miles, telling the story of Sophy's wrongs with a publicity strangely at variance with his dignified and melancholy reticence in former days. He became a garrulous old man, ready to pour the history of his troubles into every ear that would listen to it. And the story was an interesting one. Many an old resident within some miles of Apley recollected the incidents connected with the mysterious disappearance of the saddler's pretty daughter, and the morose distress of her father. Now that the almost forgotten mystery was solved the solution proved to be more interesting than the secret. Andrew found no difficulty in gaining listeners.

In these days public confession and public penance are impossible. Sidney had no intention to act unjustly by his unfortunate firstborn son, but he could take no steps to make his intentions known. He had made his confession, with secret shame and grief, to his own solicitors, and to one or two of his most intimate friends. The rector, of course, had been acquainted with every detail, and had looked more deeply into his heart of hearts than any other eye, except Margaret's. But he could not defend himself from aspersions. A general election was at hand; and Andrew, maddened by the remembrance of the eager aid he had given to Sidney in former times, redoubled his efforts to prejudice his constituents against him. But on the eve of the dissolution Sidney addressed a letter to them, resigning his office as their representative, and recommending as his successor the son of a neighboring landlord. No reason was given for his resignation.

This omission Andrew seized upon. Garbled statements of the recent events in the life of their late member of Parliament appeared in the county papers taking the opposite side in politics--statements full of venom and rancor. These were among the many penalties which Sidney could not bear alone, but which fell heavily on Margaret and his sons. The romance of Sophy's life and death contained so much truth that it was not wise to enter into any contradictory or explanatory statements. The son of Sidney's first wife was described as a helpless imbecile, rendered so by the untold miseries which he had suffered with his father's knowledge. A demand was made that the guardianship of this unhappy heir should be taken out of his father's hands, and placed in those of the Lord Chancellor, as the legal protector of idiots. A commission should be immediately appointed to inquire into the present condition, both physical and mental, of Sidney Martin's heir.

This blow struck home. Not only did Sidney suffer from it, but Philip and Hugh, who were now together at Brackenburn, whither Hugh had gone for the long vacation. Rachel Goldsmith was filled with indignant anger. Andrew himself was dismayed at the storm he had raised, and the use made of his bitter complaints by the "other side," as he called those opposed to his own political views. He had not wished to play into their hands. Besides, he knew that whatever concealment Sidney might have been guilty of, or whatever subterfuges he might have been tempted to, his grandson's welfare was safe in Margaret's hands. That Margaret should swerve from the right path, however strait and narrow, was incredible to him.

There was one person, however, so deeply interested in these malicious suggestions, that she hoped they might be carried into effect, at least so far as the appointment of a commission to inquire into the physical and mental condition of Martin. Laura was filled with anxiety about Phyllis; it would never do for her to marry Philip if he was to be an almost penniless man, coming between two rich brothers. Margaret's estate went to Hugh, and if Martin was sound in mind and body, there was no chance for Philip. But in case he was really an imbecile, of course Philip would succeed. She must find out the truth.

She seized an opportunity when they were dining at the Hall with no other guests present. It was a summer's evening, and after dinner they sat out of doors on the terrace. Phyllis, in obedience to previous orders, carried Dorothy out of the way. Laura began with a little trepidation.

"We saw old Andrew this morning," she said, "and he could talk of nothing but his grandson."

Laura knew there were times when the fewest words were best, and she spoke these with an air of innocent frankness.

"Yes, Sidney," said George, "the old man is angry with himself at giving rise to these vexatious reports. Would it not be best to bring Martin here for people to see him for themselves?"

"No, no; it is impossible," answered Sidney.

"But why?" pursued George. "It is always best to face a difficulty as soon as possible. You cannot keep him out of sight forever. Is it true, then, that the poor fellow is imbecile?"

"Not at all," replied Sidney. "The simple truth is that he is a savage. He has no more idea of our modes of life and thought than a savage has. His vocabulary is that of a savage; at the most he knows less than three hundred words, and he cannot learn the English equivalents of those. His brain is almost utterly undeveloped, and his mind is almost as much closed against us as if he was only a dog. But there is no reason to suppose him imbecile, and, in time, he may yet learn a good deal."

"Is he strong in body?" asked Laura.

"As strong as a giant in some ways," said Sidney. "His hard life has made his muscles like iron. He can sleep out of doors amid snow and frost that would kill any one of us, and he can eat food that would sicken us. Yes," he added, in a tone of unfathomable regret, "my eldest son is a savage and a heathen, but he is not an idiot."

"And must he really be your heir?" asked Laura with a trembling voice.

"Certainly," he replied; "he is old enough to cut off the entail, but until he can understand what that means it cannot be done, and that is a very complex idea for a savage brain. There is no ground for dispossessing Martin. Two of our most eminent mental specialists have been to Brackenburn, and they discover no mental incapacity excepting that of an altogether undeveloped brain. They found him more dull and ignorant than the lowest type of English laborer, but they attribute it solely to neglect, not to brain weakness. He may be unfit for his position, but there is no reason why his son should be."

"Goodness!" exclaimed Laura, aghast. "You think, then, he will marry."

"Why not?" asked Margaret. "Nothing would tend to civilize him so much as a wife and children, if only we can find some good and nice village girl whom he could love, and who would consent to marry him. But no lady would become his wife."

"Of course not," assented Laura; "but what, then, is to become of poor Philip?"

"Philip wants to become a surgeon," said Margaret, smiling, "and I am willing, even glad; but Sidney hesitates. I do not want my boy drowned in commercial cares, and dealing chiefly with money all his life, as Sidney has been. I do not think money worth the sacrifice. I cannot help believing that our Lord meant what He said: 'How hardly shall they that have riches enter into the kingdom of God!' It is true. Tell me, Sidney, is it not true? I shall be glad to have Philip out of the race for wealth. They will not be poor--Laura; my boy and your girl. They will have enough to secure everything worth having--everything that tends to health and culture and rational pleasure. They will only have to do without superfluities."

"Philip a surgeon!" exclaimed Laura; "not even a clergyman to take the family living!"

"That would be impossible," replied Margaret; "he feels no call for it, and he could not go into the Church for the sake of the family living."

"That would be a sin against God," said George; "next to the unpardonable sin, if it be not that sin itself. Let Philip become a surgeon; my Phyllis will love him as much as if he was the owner of Brackenburn."

But there were at least two persons there who doubted it, and with good reasons. A smile that had grown rare on Sidney's face lit it up for a moment, as the thought flashed across him that Philip would soon see the real nature of the wife he had chosen, and that Dorothy would also appear to him in her true light. Laura inwardly vowed that neither persuasion nor authority on her husband's part should keep Phyllis bound to a man who entered the insignificant career of a surgeon. It would have been a knotty question whether Phyllis could have married him, even if he had entered into partnership with his successful father; but she should never become the wife of a professional man.

And Martin? It was possible that Sidney and Margaret were exaggerating his deficiencies. Laura felt no doubt that they painted him worse than he was; it was Margaret's habit to overstate any opinion she formed. If he was only a boor, why could not Phyllis civilize him? She might, in any case, keep her boorish husband in the background and still enjoy the distinction of being Mrs. Martin of Brackenburn. Before she bade them good-night she had constructed for herself a tolerable image of Martin, which might be quite easily tolerated by a girl like Phyllis. She might still live to see her the wife of Sidney's eldest son.