University of Virginia Library

52. CHAPTER LII.
MILLBANK IS SOLD AT AUCTION.

MILLBANK was to be sold, with all its furniture and
the hundred acres of land belonging to it. Five years
had sufficed for Frank to run through his princely
fortune, and he was a ruined man. Extravagant living, losses
by fire and neglect to take advantage of the markets, fast
horses, heavy bets, the dishonesty of Holt, his head man and
chief adviser, and lastly, his singing of a note of twenty thousand
dollars, — every penny of which he had to pay, — had done the
business for him; and when the Greys landed in New York
the papers were full of the “great failure” at Belvidere, and
the day was fixed when Millbank was to be sold.

Guy pointed out the paragraph to Magdalen, and then
watched her as she read it. She was very white, and there was
a strange gleam in her dark eyes; but she did not seem sorry.
On the contrary, her face fairly shone as she looked up and
said, “I shall buy Millbank and give it back to Roger.”

Guy knew she would do that, and he encouraged her in the
plan, and went himself to Belvidere, where he was a stranger,
and made all needful inquiries, and reported to Magdalen.
Mrs. Frank had already left Millbank with her hundred thousand,
not a dollar of which could Frank's creditors touch, or
Frank either, for that matter.

Bell held her own with an iron grasp, and so well had she
managed that none of the principal had been spent, and when
the final crash came and her husband told her he was ruined, it
found her prepared and ready to abdicate at any moment.

The old home in Boston was sold, but she was able to buy a
better one, and she did so, and with her father and sister took
possession at once. To do Bell justice, she carried nothing
from Millbank but her clothing and jewelry. The rest belonged
to Frank's creditors, and she considered that it would be
stealing to take it. This she said several times for the benefit
of Mrs. Walter Scott, who, less scrupulous than her daughter-in-law,
was quietly filling her trunks and boxes with articles of
value, silver and china, and linen and bedding, and curtains, and
whatever she could safely stow away. Mrs. Walter Scott was
about to buy a house, too, a cosy little cottage with handsome
grounds, just out of New York, on the New Haven road. She,
too, had managed well, as she supposed. She had speculated in
stocks and oil until she thought herself worth forty thousand
dollars. There was some of it lying in the bank, where she
could draw it at any time, and some of it still in oil, which she
was assured she could sell at an advance upon the original
price. So, what with the forty thousand and what with the
household goods she would take from Millbank, she felt quite
comfortable in her mind, and bore the shock of her son's failure
with great equanimity and patience. She was glad, she said, of
something to break up the terrible life they were leading at Millbank.
For more than a year, and indeed ever since Bell's return
from abroad, scarcely a word had been exchanged between
herself and Mrs. Franklin Irving, and each lady had an
establishment of her own, with a separate table, a separate retinue
of servants, and a separate carriage. There was no other
way of keeping the peace, and in desperation Frank himself had
suggested this arrangement, though he knew that the entire support
of both families would necessarily fall on him. But Frank
was reckless, and did not greatly care. He was going to destruction
any way, he said to Roger, who expostulated with him
and warned him of the sure result of such extravagance. “He
was going to ruin, and he might as well go on a grand scale, and
better, too, if that would keep peace between the women.”

And so he went to ruin, and wrote to Roger one morning,

“The smash has come, and I'm poorer than I was when I depended
on you for my bread. Everything is to be sold, and I
can't say I am sorry. It's been a torment to me. I've never
had the confidence of my men; they always acted as if I was
an intruder, and I felt so myself. I wish I could give the thing
back to you as clear as when I took it. I'd rather saw wood
than lead the dog's life I have led for the last five years. Bell
is going to Boston. She is rich, and maybe will let me live with
her if I pay my board! That sounds queer, don't it? but I tell
you, old chap, you are better off without a wife. I don't believe
in women any way. Mother is going to New York and I am
going to thunder.”

Roger's heart gave one great throb of sorrow for his nephew
when he read this letter, and then beat wildly with the wish that
he could buy Millbank back. But he was not able, and he
could have wept bitterly at the thoughts of its going to strangers.
“Thy will be done,” was a lesson Roger had learned thoroughly,
and he said it softly to himself, and was glad his father did not
know that the old place which had been in the family more
than fifty years, was about to pass from it forever.

He went to Millbank and examined Frank's affairs to see if
anything could be saved for the young man, who seemed so
crushed, so hopeless, and so stony. But matters were even
worse than he had feared. There was nothing to do but to sell
the entire property. Roger could buy the mill, and the men
were anxious for him to do so, and crowded around him with
their entreaties, which Frank warmly seconded.

“Buy it, Roger, and let me work in it as a common hand. I'd
rather do it a thousand times than live on my wife, even if her
money did come from me.”

Frank said this bitterly, and Roger's heart ached for him as
he replied that perhaps he would buy the Mill; he'd think of it
and decide. It was not to be sold till after Millbank, and his
decision would depend on who bought that. This comforted
Frank a little, and he felt a great deal better when he at last

said good-by to Roger, who went back to Schodick the day
but one before Guy Seymour's arrival in Belvidere.

Guy did not go to see Frank. He found out all he cared to
know from other sources, and reported to Magdalen, who could
scarcely eat or sleep, so great was her excitement and so eager
was she for the day of the sale.

“Have you answered Roger's letter?” Alice asked, and she
replied: “No, nor shall I till Millbank is mine. Then I shall
take my answer to him with a deed of the place.”

She had it all arranged, — her going to Schodick unannounced
to see Roger, her laying the deed before him, and her
keen enjoyment of his surprise and astonishment, both at the
deed and the sight of herself.

“It is five years since I saw him. I wonder if he will know
me, and if he will think me old at twenty-four?” she said as she
arose and glanced at herself in the mirror.

Three years of travel had not impaired but greatly improved
her looks and style, and those who thought her handsome when
she went away exclaimed now at her matchless loveliness, and
Magdalen knew herself that she was beautiful, and was glad for
Roger's sake. Every thought and feeling now had a direct
reference to him, and when at last the day of the sale arrived,
she was sick with excitement, and read Guy's message in bed.

He had promised to telegraph as soon as Millbank was hers,
and all through the morning she waited and watched and her
head throbbed with pain and she grew more and more impatient,
until at last came the telegram.

“Millbank is yours. Mr. Roger Irving neither here nor
coming. Guy.”

Then Magdalen arose and dressed herself, and seemed like one
insane as she flew about the room and packed a small hat-box
preparatory for to-morrow's journey. She was going to Millbank
to execute the deed, and then on to Schodick with Guy.
Alice helped her all she could, and tried to keep her quiet, and
make her eat and rest lest her strength should fail entirely.

But Magdalen was not tired, she said, nor sick now. She felt

better than she had done in years, and her eyes were bright as
stars and her cheeks like damask roses when she bade Alice
good-by and started for Belvidere.

Guy met her at the station, and conducted her to the new
hotel, which had been built since she left the place. The windows
of her room commanded a view of Millbank, and she
looked with tearful eyes at her old home and Roger's, and
thought, “It will be ours again.” She had no doubt of that, no
doubt of Roger, and her heart thrilled with ecstasy as she anticipated
the joyous future. There had not been much excitement
at the sale, Guy told her; but few seemed to care for so
large a house, and the bids had ceased altogether when once it
was rumored that he was merely bidding for her, — for Magdalen.

“I believe they suspected your intention,” Guy said, “and
you got Millbank some thousands cheaper than I thought you
would. It is a grand old place, and has not been injured by its
recent proprietors.”

Magdalen did not wish to go into the house while Mrs. Walter
Scott was there, but she rode through the grounds in the afternoon,
and the next day started with Guy for Schodick, which
they reached about three o'clock.

“Mr. Irving was in town,” the landlord said, “and slightly
indisposed, he believed; at least he was not at his office that
morning, and the clerk said he was at his house, sick.”

“I am going to him at once,” Magdalen said to Guy. “You
have been there. You can direct me, and within half an hour
after their arrival in Schodick she was on her way to Roger's
house with the deed of Millbank in her pocket.