Chapter XXX: Fortune’s Wheel

Many weeks went by, and one would scarcely have recognized in the quiet, hard-working lawyer, who toiled early and late with such persistence and energy, the idle, defiant, unprincipled man who had heartlessly dragged his wife away from home and friends, subjecting her to almost every kind of discomfort, and refusing to put forth a single effort for her support.

Philip had not yet ascertained where Arley was, and the letter which he had written, with her jewels and money, were still in his keeping.

He could not make up his mind to call upon Miss McAllister to obtain her address, for he dreaded both her questions and her displeasure. He had heard that she was something of an invalid and did not go out at all, so he hoped she had not yet heard of his return.

She had not, and it was known but by very few outside those doing business with him, for he did not frequent his old haunts; he shunned his club and all society, devoting every hour not needed for rest to his business.

His business increased so rapidly that he was obliged to hire assistants, and the gold which he had so coveted began to pour in upon him from every quarter; but every pound over and above his actual needs he conscientiously deposited in the Bank of England to swell the account in Arley’s name.

And so six months went by in this busy way. At the end of that time he balanced his accounts, and was astonished with the result.

“This is not bad for a beginning,” he said as he looked at the generous figures. “A few years like this, and I could put Arley back where I found her.”

“Ah, no!” he added, in a tone sharp with pain. “I could give her twenty thousand pounds, perhaps, but I can never give her back her free, happy life--I can never blot from her memory the bitterness, the pain and disgrace which I have since inflicted upon her. Oh, Arley, my beloved! why did I not appreciate the prize I had won? If I had but heeded your counsels, I should now have you and happiness, together with my prosperity!

“Fool! fool!” he cried, leaping wildly to his feet, as if he could not bear the thought of it; “you are rightly punished! No fate, however wretched, no penance can be too severe for you; you have brought it all upon yourself, and you must bear it as best you can!”

There came a rap on his office door just then, but it took him more than a minute to compose himself sufficiently to go and answer the summons.

It was only the postman, who silently handed him an official-looking document, and then hastened away again.

In a listless way Philip broke the seals and proceeded to inspect its contents, supposing it to be something connected with his own business.

But, after he had read a page or two, he was seized with amazement, and perused the remainder of the communication with breathless interest.

That old adage, “It never rains but it pours,” seemed destined to prove true for Philip Paxton, for he learned that a widowed aunt and her whole family, consisting of a son and two daughters, who lived in Wales, had been suddenly swept out of life by that dread disease, diphtheria. The children had first fallen victims to it, and then the worn-out, heart-broken mother had lain down to follow them.

She was the widow of the late Sir Frederick Sharpley, Baronet, who had been Philip’s mother’s only brother, and the paper which he held in his trembling hands told him that he, being the nearest living relative, was heir to the estate and title of his uncle.

He could not realize it; it had come upon him so suddenly, so wholly unexpected that he actually could not comprehend it, and sat staring at the document in a way that would have been ludicrous under any other circumstances.

Twice he was obliged to read it through before he could realize that it was not all a vision of his own imagination. But it was all there in black and white; the family lawyer had made it very plain, and had written him immediately after Lady Sharpley’s funeral, at her request.

She would allow no notice to be sent him of her children’s death, on account of the fear of contagion, and when she found that she also could not live, she exacted a promise that he should be told nothing for the same reason, until she should be lain in the family vault, and the house thoroughly purified, lest he, too, contract the fatal disease, and the estate, for the lack of an heir, fall to the crown.

“Tell him,” were her last words, “to be a good, an honorable man, and keep the title unspotted. There has never yet been a stain upon the fair escutcheon of the family, and my personal legacy to him is, its purity--let him maintain it as long as he shall live.”

It was with a very white face that Philip at length folded up that startling communication and fell to musing upon its contents.

The estate of the late Sir Frederick, the lawyer wrote, was a remarkably fine one, wholly unencumbered, and with a rent roll of nearly fifteen thousand pounds, while there was a bank account yielding nearly as much more.

How strangely fortune’s wheel turns round!

Coming just at this time, Philip felt as if he could not bear these new honors which had been heaped so unexpectedly upon him, and, bowing his head upon his desk, he groaned aloud, feeling humiliated and crushed as he had never felt before.

What were houses, lands, rent rolls or bank accounts to him now? They were like the “apples of Sodom that turn to ashes in the grasp.”

His new position would bring him no happiness; it could not restore to him either his own self-respect or Arley’s love--the only two things which seemed really worth anything just now to him.

But with new honors came new cares; his inheritance must be looked after, and as soon as he could arrange his business so as to leave it, he repaired to Elmsford, as Sir Frederick’s estate had been called.

He found it a beautiful place. The mansion itself was very old, but, having been built in a most substantial way and kept in thorough repair, with modern conveniences added from time to time, it was a house to love and be proud of. The grounds about it had been laid out with exquisite taste and judgment, and were considered the finest in the county. There was a deer park, abounding in deer, for Lady Sharpley had allowed no hunting since her husband’s death, five years previously; while the wide-spreading upland and meadow on every hand were rich with grain and herbage.

There was a fine picture-gallery in the mansion, containing works of some of the best artists--both of sculptors and painters--of several centuries, and there was a wealth of plate, of solid silver, that was fairly dazzling to the eyes.

As Philip Paxton roamed over his new possessions, visiting room after room, noting the beauty and elegance of everything about him, no smile came to his lips, no gladness to his heart, for it all seemed to mock at him, to jeer at the emptiness of his soul.

Mr. Farley, the steward, appeared to be a competent, trustworthy young man, and he was much pleased with him.

He had received the young baronet with great courtesy and friendliness, conducting him over the estate with evident pride in its fine appearance, while his books, upon examination, showed excellent business capacity; and Philip resolved to leave the management of it still in his hands--at least for the present--while he returned to his own labors in London.

There was no longer any need of this, pecuniarily, but work had become a mental necessity; it would not do to stop; he must not have time to brood over his past, lest his remorse and misery drive him to desperation.

So, giving Mr. Farley full control, Sir Philip Paxton went back to his close chambers in Grey’s Inn, leaving all this beauty and luxury behind him, and plunged more assiduously than ever into his business.

But one thing he had resolved upon, and now carried it into action. He paid a visit to Arley’s old lawyer and had the twenty thousand pounds which he had deposited in the bank written up to Arley’s account.