Chapter LV: A New Plan

There were more persons than Laura Martin who felt bitter and disappointed when the announcement was made that Sidney Martin's second son was about to marry his rich ward. Dorothy, with her large fortune, had been the subject of much speculation and many schemes among Sidney's circle, and he did not escape further odium.

His career stood in this light in the eyes of most who knew him. In his early manhood he contracted a low marriage, which he kept a profound secret for fear of losing the favor of his rich uncle, whose next heir he was. When tired and disgusted with his unsuitable wife, he deserted her and his infant son in a remote and almost unvisited spot in the Austrian Tyrol, thus dooming his firstborn child to a life of misery and degradation many degrees worse than that of the lowest laborer in England. After his succession to the estates of his uncle he assumed the character of an ardent philanthropist and Christian, by which he gained the affection of the only daughter and heiress of Colonel Cleveland of Apley. His eldest son by this marriage was brought up as his heir, and would have succeeded him but for the accidental discovery of his first-born son, a man of thirty, densely ignorant, and as uncivilized as a savage. The right of this man having been established by his mother's father, Sidney was compelled to acknowledge him and place him in the house which would belong to him upon his father's death. But to compensate the second son, thus dispossessed and disinherited, he handed over to him the wealthy ward, who had been entrusted to his care by a man who knew him only under his assumed character. This young girl had been kept secluded from all chances of making another choice. Sidney Martin was a clever man, said the world, a clever Christian.

No man knew the depth of his repentance. Even Margaret but dimly guessed it. If he could have made a sacrifice of all his life, and gone back to the hour when he fled from Sophy's shrill peevishness, he would have done it, and taken up his life afresh, burdened with her as his wife and the mother of his children. But the past could not be undone. There was a closer union now between him and Margaret than there ever had been, though it had struck its roots in his sin and sorrow. It might have been a higher union, lifted up into pure regions of holiness and gladness, but he had dragged her down to him in the valley instead of rising with her to fairer heights.

Another scheme presented itself to his brain, always busily planning how to retrieve the past. Why should not Philip and Dorothy marry at once, and go to live at Brackenburn? Philip had been brought up to fulfill the duties of an English country gentleman, a post Martin could never fill. He might still take that position, and look after the Yorkshire estate as long as Sidney himself lived. Then the progress which Martin had been making under Dorothy's influence, and which had been arrested by her departure, would go on again. Martin was sinking back mentally, and was failing physically. Philip and Dorothy would save him body and soul.

Margaret approved cordially of this idea. Her heart was full of pity for the desolate man, living his lonely life among people who must utterly fail to understand him. There was no reason why Philip and Dorothy should not marry soon and take up their charge. They could make a home for Martin, who loved them both so ardently; and if it came to pass in the future that he should marry, they would give up the place to him. As Dorothy loved her birthplace so much, she and Philip might choose to build themselves a house in the neighborhood of Brackenburn.

There was one person only who might raise an objection to this plan; and Philip went down to Brackenburn to consult Andrew Goldsmith, and convince him of its desirability. It was a November night when he reached the manor house, and scarcely a light shone in any of its windows, and not a sound was to be heard until Philip rang the great hall door bell. It was opened by Selina, with a candle in her hand; and by its dim light she led him along the many passages until they reached the door of the housekeeper's room near the kitchen. Both Andrew and Mary Goldsmith were dozing in the flickering firelight, and Selina giggled audibly at their bewildered efforts to appear awake and lively.

"A poor home for Martin," thought Philip, as he shook hands with the old people. Martin was stretched upon the hearthrug, and did not stir. He was lying in a languid posture, as if his strength was quite worn out. His hair, no longer left to grow in a tangled mass, lay in thin, straight lines on his forehead and his hollow temples, which had almost the color of old ivory. His cheeks, too, were sunken, and as he slept there was a tremulous movement about his lips, which gave to him an air of childish weakness. He looked like a strong man whose strength was slowly ebbing away.

"Martin, old man," said Philip, laying a cold hand on his burning forehead, "wake up and give me a welcome."

Martin awoke with a violent start, and looked up vacantly, like a dog just roused from his sleep, but when he saw who was bending over him he burst into a passion of tears.

"It is time Dorothy and I came to take care of him," thought Philip.

He would have no other fire kindled, and as supper was just ready, he sat down with them. When this meal was over, and Mary and Selina had gone to see after his room for the night, Philip found an opportunity of at once telling his business. Andrew was fond of him, but in his obstinate old heart there was a lurking jealousy of this fine young fellow who had so long usurped the place of his grandson. It vexed him to see Martin stretch himself on the ground at Philip's feet, and gaze up into his face in humble admiration.

"Mr. Goldsmith," began Philip. In old times he had called him Andrew, but since he knew him to be his father's father-in-law he had adopted a more formal mode of address, which Andrew always acknowledged by a slow and somewhat dignified motion of his head. "Mr. Goldsmith, I came to tell you and Mary, who are among my earliest friends, that I am going to marry Miss Dorothy. Soon, too, for my father and mother wish it, as well as myself."

Andrew took his pipe out of his mouth as if to speak, but put it back again till he should hear more, for he was sure there was more to come.

"We are to be married almost immediately," continued Philip, "partly on Martin's account. You know how he misses my mother and Dorothy, and you know how quickly he learns from Dorothy. He has fallen back ever since she went away. So we intend to make a home for Martin. We are going to take him under our charge, and see how much we can do for him. My mother says this life is only a moment in our endless life, and Dorothy and I are going to spend our moment in taking care of my brother."

"How are you going to do it?" asked Andrew suspiciously.

"And as soon as we are married, we are coming here to live with Martin----"

"That shall never be," interrupted Andrew, bringing his clenched fist down on the table with a blow that made Martin start, and cower like a frightened hound. "I'll see that my grandson is not turned out of his own house. No, no. Marry as soon as you please; but you shan't come to live in Martin's place."

Andrew's folly and vehemence were so unexpected by Philip, that for a minute or two he sat silently staring at the old man's infuriated face. Martin, who had been roused by his angry tones, sat up on his heels and gazed from one to the other in bewildered attention.

"Mr. Goldsmith," said Philip, after his pause of amazement, "we are making this arrangement chiefly on Martin's account. It is true Miss Dorothy loves this house, where she was born, and would rather live here than anywhere else; but she knows it can never be ours. We think of building another house in this neighborhood."

"Ay!" interrupted Andrew again, "with the money left by Sir John Martin to build a place suitable for his heir. But Martin is his heir. I am not too old to see that he has his rights. What you say sounds all very well; but there's nobody but me to see the poor lad gets his own. I'm sorry to gainsay you, Mr. Philip, but you cannot come to live here in my grandson's house. He must be master, and nobody else."

"Not for his own good?" asked Philip. "He cannot be master, for he does not know how to give an order to any servant. He will learn in time, if we take him in hand. We thought you and Mary would be glad to return to Apley, for you are among total strangers here; and Rachel is going to live with us as housekeeper."

"Ah!" cried Andrew, with a long-drawn accent of suspicion and contempt, "Rachel would do anything to serve you. I should soon hear that Martin had signed his rights away. I couldn't trust Sophy's son with Rachel when it was you he had to be unsaddled for. No; it shall never be. I'll stay by Martin as long as I live; and nobody else shall be master or mistress in his house."

"Martin," said Philip, stooping down to his brother again, and speaking in the simple Italian words he understood, "I am going to marry the signorina. Would you like us to come here, and live with you always?"

Martin repeated the words slowly to himself in a whisper; and slowly the expression of his heavy face turned into a smile so wistful and pathetic that it made Philip's heart ache. It was the smile of a soul that sees afar off the glory and blissful ness of a life from which it is shut out, but which it gazes at with distant and ignorant sympathy.

"Yes, yes, my brother!" he answered.

"I don't know what you say to him," said Andrew jealously; "but he's more simple than a child; you may do what you like with him. But you won't take me in; neither you nor your father. Here Martin is, and here he stays."

"We wish him to stay here," replied Philip. "We are coming chiefly for his sake."

"But I say you shall not come," persisted Andrew. "I'm his only guardian, and I'll defend his rights. Come in Philip--turn out Martin. That's how it will be; and I put down my foot against it. Here Martin stops, and here I stop; and nobody else comes in as master."

"You compel me to remind you that Martin has no right to this house," said Philip, "as long as my father lives. This place belongs to my father, and to no one else."

"I'll take lawyer's opinion on that," he answered doggedly. "I've given up putting my trust in any man, especially Mr. Martin. And if it's true, as sure as you bring Miss Dorothy here as your wife I'll take my grandson away, down to Apley, and all the country-side shall see Mr. Martin's son and heir sitting at work in a saddler's shop. He is fitter for that, perhaps, than to be a squire; but whose fault is it? Who deserted him and his mother? Oh! Sophy, Sophy! my poor lost little girl!"

He dropped his white head upon his hands, and his sobs sounded through the little room. Philip rose silently, and went away; and Martin, with his bare feet, followed him noiselessly. The old man was left alone with his impotent rage and grief.