The Hallam Succession Part 10

them, or he would nivver hev spoke o' them; and he'll go to them, rather than not hev his own way. Even if he didn't, just as soon as he was squire, he'd manage it. The Norfolk Hallams, who are next to him, are a poor s.h.i.+ftless crowd, that he'd buy for a song. Now dost thou want to keep Hallam i' thy own flesh and blood? If ta does, I'll tell thee what to do."

"That is the dearest, strongest wish I hev; and thou knows it, Whaley."

"Then go thy ways home and tell Antony Hallam he can hev L50,000, if he gives up to thee every possible claim on Hallam, and every possible a.s.sistance in putting it free in thy hands to sell, or to leave as thou wishes."

"He'll do that fast enough."

"Then thou choose a proper husband for thy daughter and settle it upon her. Her husband must take the name o' Hallam; and thy grandchildren by Elizabeth will be as near to thee as they would be by Antony."

"Elizabeth has chosen her husband. He is a son of my aunt, Martha Hallam; the daughter of Sibbald Hallam."

"What does ta want better? That's famous!"

"But he's an American."

"Then we must mak' an Englishman o' him. T' Hallams must be kept up.

What's his name?"

"Fontaine."

"It's a varry Frenchified name. I should think he'd be glad to get rid o' it. Where is he now? At Hallam?"

"He is in t' Holy Land somewhere."

"Is he a parson?"

"No, he's a planter; and a bit o' a lawyer, too."

"Whativer does he want in t' Holy Land, then?"

"He's wi' a Bishop."

"Ay? Then he's pious?"

"For sure; he's a Methodist."

"That's not bad. Squire Gregory was a Methodist. He saved more 'an a bit o' money, and he bought all o' t' low meadows, and built main part o' t' stables, and laid out best half o' t' gardens. There nivver was a better or thriftier holder o' Hallam. Ay, ay, there's a kind o' fellows.h.i.+p between Methodism and money. This Mr. Fontaine will do uncommon well for Hallam, squire, I should think."

"If I got Antony to come to thee, Whaley, could ta do owt wi' him, thinks ta?"

"I wouldn't try it, squire. It would be breath thrown away. Soon or later thy son Antony will take his own way, no matter where it leads him. Thou hes t' reins i' thy hand now, tak' my advice, and settle this thing while thou hes. It's a deep wound, but it's a clean wound yet; cut off t' limb afore it begins to fester and poison t' whole body. And don't thee quarrel wi' him. He's a man now, and there hes to be a' mak's o' men to do t' world's work. Let Antony be; he'll mebbe be a credit to thee yet."

"I don't believe, Whaley, thou understands what a sorrow this is to me."

"Don't I? I've got a heart yet, Hallam, though thou'd happen think I've varry little use for it at eighty-nine years old; but I'll tell thee what, instead o' looking at t' troubles thou hes, just tak' a look at them thou hesn't. I nivver gave thee a bit o' advice better worth seven-and-sixpence than that is."

"What does ta mean?"

"I'll tell thee. Thou's fretting because Antony wants to go into business, and to get hold o' as much gold and honor as iver he can put his hands on. Now suppose he wanted to spend a' t' money he could get hold of, and to drag thy old name through t' mire o' jockey fields and gambling houses, and t' filth that lies at t' month o' h.e.l.l.

Wouldn't that be worse?"

"Ay, it would."

"And they who hanker after an earldom'll be varry like to pick up some good things on t' road to it. When ta can't mak' t' wind suit thee, turn round and sail wi' t' wind."

"Thou sees, Whaley, I hev saved a good bit o' money, and I gave Antony t' best education Oxford could hand over for it; and I reckoned on him getting into Parliament, and makkin' a bit o' a stir there, and building up t' old name wi' a deal o' honor."

"Varry good; but _strike t' nail that'll go!_ What is t' use o'

hitting them that will only bend and break i' thy hand, and get mebbe t' weight o' t' blow on thy own finger-ends. Go thee home and talk reasonably to thy son. He's gotten a will o' his own--that's a way wi' t' Hallams--and he'll tak' it. Mak' up thy mind to that."

"But children ought to obey their fathers."

"Ought hesn't been t' fas.h.i.+on since iver I remember; and t' young people o' these days hev crossed out Fifth Commandment--happen that's t' reason there is so few men blessed wi' the green old age that I asked for wi' the keeping o' it."

The squire pondered this advice all day, keeping apart from his family, and really suffering very keenly. But toward evening he sent for his son. As Antony entered his room he looked at him with a more conscious and critical regard than he had ever done before. He was forced to admit that he was different from his ancestors, though inheriting their physical peculiarities. They were mostly splendid animals, with faces radiant with courage and high spirits and high health. Antony's face was clearer and more refined, more complex, more suggestive. His form, equally tall, was slighter, not hampered with superfluous flesh, not so aggressively erect. One felt that the older Hallams would have walked straight up to the object of their ambition and demanded it, or, if necessary, fought for it. One was equally sure that Antony had the ability to stoop, to bow, to slide past obstacles, to attain his object by the pleasantest road possible.

He met his father with marked respect and a conciliating manner; standing, with one hand leaning on the central table, until told to sit down.

"Thou can hev what ta wants on thy own terms, son Antony."

"Thank you, sir."

"Nay, I want no thanks. I hev only made t' best o' a bad job."

"I hope you may live to see that it is not a bad job, sir. I intend no dishonor to our name. I am as proud of it as you are. I only desire to make it a power and an influence, and to give it the honor it deserves."

"Ay, ay; thou's going to light thy torch at t' sun, no doubt. I hev heard young men talk afore thee. There is Squire Cawthorpe--he was at college wi' me--what a grand poem he was going to write! He's master o' Bagley fox hounds now, and he nivver wrote a line as I heard tell o'. There's Parson Leveret! He was going to hand in t' millennium, and now he cares for nowt i' t' world but his t.i.thes and a bottle o'

good port. Howiver, there's no use talking. Whaley will manage t'

business, and when thou art needed he'll go up to London to see thee.

As long as thou art young Squire Hallam I shall continue thy allowance; when thou hest signed away thy birthright thou wilt hev L50,000, and nivver another penny-piece from Hallam."

"That is just and right."

"And sooner thou leaves Hallam, and better it will be for both o' us, I'm sure. It hurts me to my heart to see thee; that it does,"--and he got up suddenly, and walked to the window to hide the tears that forced themselves into his eyes.

"Shake hands with me, father."

"Nay, I'd rather not."

He had his hands under his coat, behind his back, and he kept them there, staring the while resolutely into the garden, though his large blue eyes were too full to see any thing clearly. Antony watched him a moment, and then approached him.

"Forget, sir, what I am going to do. Before I leave Hallam give me your hand, father, as you would give it to your son Antony."

The squire was not able to resist this appeal. He sunk into his chair and covered his face, saying mournfully: "O, Antony! Antony! Thou hes broken my heart."

But when Antony knelt down by his side, and kissed the hand that lay so pathetically suggestive upon the broad knee, he made no movement of dissent. In another minute the door closed softly, and he was alone--as really a bereaved father as if he stood at an open grave.

Antony's adieu to Phyllis was easily made, but his parting with his sister hurt him in his deepest affections. Whatever of unselfish love he felt belonged to Elizabeth, and she returned to her brother the very strongest care and tenderness of her nature. They had a long conference, from which Antony came away pale and sick with emotion, leaving his sister sobbing on her couch. It is always a painful thing to witness grief from which we are shut out, and Phyllis was unhappy without being able to weep with her uncle and cousins. But it is one blessing of a refined household that sorrow must be put aside for the duties and courtesies of life. The dinner table was set, and the squire washed his face, and put on his evening suit, his long white vest and lace kerchief, and, without being conscious of it, was relieved by the change. And Elizabeth had to rouse herself and take thought for her household duties, and dress even more carefully than usual, in order to make her white cheeks and sorrowful eyes less noticeable.

And the courtesies of eating together made a current in the tide of unhappy thought; so that before the meal was over there had been some smiles; and hope, the apprehender of joy, the sister of faith, had whispered to both father and sister, "Keep a good heart! Things may be better than they appear to be."