University of Virginia Library

48. CHAPTER XLVIII.
THE HEIRESS.

The next morning it was hard to believe in the spectacle of
the preceding day. The house of Pinewood was pleasantly
open to the sun and air. Hope Wayne, in a black dress of the
lightest possible texture, so thin that her arms could be seen
through the sleeves, sat by a window. Lawrence Newt sat
beside her. Dr. Peewee was talking with Mrs. Dinks. Her
son Alfred was sitting alone in a chair, looking at his mother,
and Mrs. Fanny Newt Dinks was looking out at a window
upon the lawn. Mrs. Simcoe sat near Hope Wayne. There
was a table in the middle of the room, from which every thing
had been removed. The Honorable Budlong Dinks was walking
slowly up and down the room; and several legal-looking
gentlemen, friends of his, were conversing and smiling among
themselves.

Mr. Dinks stopped in his walk, and, leaning upon the table
with the tips of two fingers and the thumb of his left hand,

he thrust the right hand into his waistcoat, by the side of the
ruffle of his shirt, as if he were about to address the house
upon a very weighty question.

“In accordance,” said he, with an air of respect and resignation,
“with the wishes of the late Christopher Burt, as expressed
in a paper found in his secretary drawer after his decease,
I am about to open his will.”

The Honorable Mr. Dinks cleared his throat. Mrs. Fanny
Newt Dinks turned back from the window, and conversation
ceased. All eyes were fixed upon the speaker, who became
more pigeon-breasted every moment. He took out his glasses
and placed them upon his nose, and slowly surveyed the company.
He then drew a sealed paper from his pocket, clearing
his throat with great dignity as he did so:

“This is the document,” said he, again glancing about the
room. At this point Hiram stepped gently in, and stood by
the door.

Mr. Dinks proceeded to break the seal as if it had been
sacramental bread, and with occasional looks at the groups
around him, opened the document—shook it—creased it back
—smoothed it—and held it carefully in the attitude of reading.

When the audience had been sufficiently impressed with
this ceremony, and with a proper conviction of the fact that he
of all other men had been selected to reveal the contents of
that important paper to mankind, he began, and read that, being
of sound mind and body, etc., etc., Christopher Burt, etc.,
etc., as an humble Christian, and loving the old forms, gave
his body to the ground, his soul to his God, in the hope of a
happy resurrection, etc., etc.; and devised and bequeathed his
property, etc., etc., in the manner following, to wit: that is to
say:

At this point Mr. Dinks paused, and blew his nose with profound
gravity. He proceeded:

“First. I give to my housekeeper, Jane Simcoe, the friend
of my darling daughter Mary, and the life-long friend and

guardian of my dear grand-daughter, Hope Wayne, one thousand
dollars per annum, as hereinafter specified.”

Mrs. Simcoe's face did not change; nobody moved except
Alfred Dinks, who changed the position of his legs, and thought
within himself—“By Jove!”

“Second. I give to Almira Dinks, the daughter of my
brother Jonathan Burt, and the wife of Budlong Dinks, of
Boston, the sum of five thousand dollars.”

The voice of Mr. Dinks faltered. His wife half rose and sat
down again—her face of a dark mahogany color. Fanny
Newt sat perfectly still and looked narrowly at her father-in-law,
with an expression which was very black and dangerous.
Alfred had an air of troubled consternation, as if something
fearful were about to happen. The whole company were disturbed.
They seemed to be in an electrical condition of apprehension,
like the air before a thunder-burst.

Mr. Dinks continued:

“Third. I give to Alfred Dinks, my grand-nephew, my
silver shoe-buckles, which belonged to his great-grandfather
Burt.”

“Fourth. And all the other estate, real and personal, of
which I may die seized, I give, devise, and bequeath to Budlong
Dinks, Timothy Kingo, and Selah Sutler, in trust, nevertheless,
and for the sole use, behoof, and benefit of my dearly-beloved
grand-daughter, Hope Wayne.”

Mr. Dinks stopped. There were some papers annexed, containing
directions for collecting the annuity to be paid to Mrs.
Simcoe, and a schedule of the property. The Honorable B.
Dinks looked hastily at the schedule.

“Miss Wayne's property will be at least a million of dollars,”
said he, in a formal voice.

There were a few moments of utter silence. Even the legal
gentlemen ceased buzzing; but presently the forefinger of one
of them was laid in the palm of his other hand, and as he
stated his proposition to his neighbor, a light conversation began
again.

Mrs. Fanny Dinks Newt seemed to have been smitten. She
sat crushed up, as it were, biting her nails nervously; her
brow wrinkled incredulously, and glaring at her father-in-law,
as he folded the paper. Her face grew altogether as black as
her hair and her eyes; as if she might discharge a frightful
flash and burst of tempest if she were touched or spoken to,
or even looked at.

But Mrs. Dinks the elder did look at her, not at all with an
air of sullen triumph, but, on the contrary, with a singularly
inquisitive glance of apprehension and alarm, as if she felt that
the petty trial of wits between them was insignificant compared
with the chances of Alfred's happiness. In one moment
it flashed upon her mind that the consequences of this will to
her Alfred — to her son whom she loved — would be overwhelming.
Good Heavens! she turned pale as she thought
of him and Fanny together.

The young man had merely muttered “By Jove, that's too
d— bad!” and flung himself out of the room.

His wife did not observe that her mother-in-law was regarding
her; she did not see that her husband had left the room;
she thought of no contest of wits, of no game she had won or
lost. She thought only of the tragical mistake she had made—
the dull, blundering crime she had committed; and still bowed
over, and gnawing her nails, she looked sideways with her
hard, round, black eyes, at Hope Wayne.

The heiress sat quietly by the side of her friend Lawrence
Newt. She was holding the hand of Mrs. Simcoe, who glanced
sometimes at Lawrence, calmly, and with no sign of regretful
or revengeful remembrance. The Honorable Budlong Dinks
was walking up and down the room, stroking his chin with
his hand, not without a curiously vague indignation with the
late lamented proprietor of Pinewood.

It was a strange spectacle. A room full of living men and
women who had just heard what some of them considered
their doom pronounced by a dead man. They had carried
him out of his house, cold, powerless, screwed into the casket.

They had laid him in the ground beneath the village spire, and
yet it was his word that troubled, enraged, disappointed, surprised,
and envenomed them. Beyond their gratitude, reproaches,
taunts, or fury, he lay helpless and dumb—yet the
most terrible and inaccessible of despots.

The conversation was cool and indifferent. The legal gentlemen
moved about with a professional and indifferent air, as
if they assisted at such an occasion as medical students at dissections.
It was in the way of business. As Mr. Quiddy, the
confidential counsel of the late lamented Mr. Burt, looked at
Mrs. Alfred Dinks, he remarked to Mr. Baze, a younger member
of the bar, anxious to appear well in the eyes of Quiddy,
that it was a pity the friends of deceased parties permitted
their disappointments to overpower them upon these occasions.
Saying which, Mr. Quiddy waved his forefinger in the
air, while Mr. Baze, in a deferential manner and tone, answered,
Certainly, because they could not help themselves.
There was no getting round a will drawn as that will was—
here a slight bow to Mr. Quiddy, who had drawn the will,
was interpolated—and if people didn't like what they got,
they had better grin and bear it. Mr. Quiddy further remarked,
with the forefinger still wandering in the air as if restlessly
seeking for some argument to point, that the silver shoe-buckles
which had so long been identified with the quaint costume
of Mr. Burt, would be a very pretty and interesting heir-loom
in the family of young Mr. Dinks.

Upon which the eminent confidential counsel took snuff, and
while he flirted the powder from his fingers looked at his
young friend Baze.

Young Mr. Baze said, “Very interesting!” and continued
the attitude of listening for further wisdom from his superior.

Lawrence Newt meanwhile had narrowly watched his niece
Fanny. Nobody else cared to approach her; but he went
over to her presently.

“Well, Fanny.”

“Well, Uncle Lawrence.”

“Beautiful place, Fanny.”

“Is it?”

“So peaceful after the city.”

“I prefer town.”

“Fanny!”

“Uncle Lawrence.”

“What are you going to do?”

She had not looked at him before, but now she raised her
eyes to his. She might as well have closed them. Dropping
them, she looked upon the floor and said nothing.

“I'm sorry for you, Fanny.”

She looked fierce. There was a snake-like stealthiness in
her appearance, which Alfred's mother saw across the room
and trembled. Then she raised her eyes again to her uncle's,
and said, with a kind of hissing sneer,

“Indeed, Uncle Lawrence, thank you for nothing. It's not
very hard for you to be sorry.”

Not dismayed, not even surprised by this speech, Lawrence
was about to reply, but she struck in,

“No, no; I don't want to hear it. I've been cheated, and
I'll have my revenge. As for you, my respected uncle, you
have played your cards better.”

He was surprised and perplexed.

“Why, Fanny, what cards? What do you mean?”

“I mean that an old fox is a sly fox,” said she, with the
hissing sneer.

Lawrence looked at her in amazement.

“I mean that sly old foxes who have lined their own nests
can afford to pity a young one who gets a silver shoe-buckle,”
hissed Fanny, with bitter malignity. “If Alfred Dinks were
not a hopeless fool, he'd break the will. Better wills than this
have been broken by good lawyers before now. Probably,”
she added suddenly, with a sarcastic smile, “my dear uncle
does not wish to have the will broken?”

Lawrence Newt was pondering what possible interest she
thought he could have in the will.

“What difference could it make to me in any case, Fanny?”

“Only the difference of a million of dollars,” said she, with
her teeth set.

Gradually her meaning dawned upon Lawrence Newt.
With a mingled pain, and contempt, and surprise, and a half-startled
apprehension that others might have thought the same
thing, and that all kinds of disagreeable consequences might
flow from such misapprehension, he perceived what she was
thinking of, and said, so suddenly and sharply that even Fanny
started,

“You think I want to marry Hope Wayne?”

“Of course I do. So does every body else. Do you suppose
we have not known of your intimacies? Do you think
we have heard nothing of your meetings all winter with that
artist and Amy Waring, and your reading poetry, and your
talking poetry?” said Fanny, with infinite contempt.

There was a look of singular perplexity upon the face of
Lawrence Newt. He was a man not often surprised, but he
seemed to be surprised and even troubled now. He looked
musingly across the room to Hope Wayne, who was sitting engaged
in earnest conversation with Mrs. Simcoe. In her whole
bearing and aspect there was that purity and kindliness which
are always associated with blue eyes and golden hair, and which
made the painters paint the angels as fair women. A lambent
light played all over her form, and to Lawrence Newt's eyes
she had never seemed so beautiful. The girlish quiet which
he had first known in her had melted into a sweet composure
—a dignified serenity which comes only with experience. The
light wind that blew in at the window by which she sat raised
her hair gently, as if invisible fingers were touching her with
airy benedictions. Was it so strange that such a woman
should be loved? Was it not strange that any man should
see much of her, be a great deal with her, and not love her?
Was Fanny's suspicion, was the world's gossip, unnatural?

He asked himself these questions as he looked at her, while
a cloud of thoughts and memories floated through his mind.

Yet a close observer, who could read men's hearts in their
faces—and that could be more easily done with every one
else than with him—would have seen another expression gradually
supplanting the first, or mingling with it rather: a look
as of joy at some unexpected discovery—as if, for instance, he
had said to himself, “She must be very dear whom I love so
deeply that it has not occurred to me I could love this angel!”

Something of that kind, perhaps; at least, something that
brought a transfigured cheerfulness into his face.

“Believe me, Fanny,” he said, at length, “I am not anxious
to marry Miss Wayne; nor would she marry me if I asked
her.”

Then he rose and passed across the room to her side.

“We were talking about the future life of the mistress of
this mansion,” said Hope Wayne to Lawrence as he joined
them.

“What does she wish?” asked he; “that is always the first
question.”

“To go from here,” said she, simply.

“Forever?”

“Forever!”

Hope Wayne said it quietly. Mrs. Simcoe sat holding her
hand. The three seemed to be all a little serious at the word.

“Aunty says she has no particular desire to remain here,”
said Hope.

“It is like living in a tomb,” said Mrs. Simcoe, turning her
calm face to Lawrence Newt.

“Would you sell it outright?” asked he. Hope Wayne
bent her head in assent.

“Why not? My own remembrances here are only gloomy.
I should rather find or make another home. We could do it,
aunty and I.”

She said it simply. Lawrence shook his head smilingly,
and replied,

“I don't think it would be hard.”

“I am going to see my trustees this morning, Uncle Dinks

says,” continued Hope, “and I shall propose to them to sell
immediately.”

“Where will you go?” asked Lawrence.

“My best friends are in New York,” replied she, with a
tender color.

Lawrence Newt thought of Arthur Merlin.

“With my aunty,” continued she, looking fondly at Mrs.
Simcoe, “I think I need not be afraid.”

Lunch was brought in; and meanwhile Mr. Kingo and Mr.
Sutler had been sent for, and arrived. Mr. Burt had not apprised
them of his intention of making them trustees.

They fell into conversation with Mr. Quiddy, and Mr. Baze,
and Mr. Dinks. Dr. Peewee took his leave, “H'm ha! yes.
My dear Miss Wayne, I congratulate you; congratulate you!
h'm ha, yes, oh yes—congratulate you.” The other legal gentlemen,
friends of Mr. Dinks, drove off. Nobody was left behind
but the trustees and the family and Lawrence Newt—
the Dinks were of the family.

After business had been discussed, and the heiress—the
owner of Pinewood—had announced her wishes in regard to
that property, she also invited the company to remain to dinner,
and to divert themselves as they chose meanwhile.

Mrs. Fanny Newt Dinks declined to stay. She asked her
husband to call their carriage, and when it came to the door
she made a formal courtesy, and did not observe—at least she
did not take—the offered hand of Hope Wayne. But as she
bowed and looked at Hope that young lady visibly changed
color, for in the glance which Fanny gave her she seemed to
see the face of her brother Abel; and she was not glad to
see it.

Toward sunset of that soft June day, when Uncle and Aunt
Dinks—the latter humiliated and alarmed—were gone, and
the honest neighbors were gone, Hope Wayne was sitting
upon the very bench where, as she once sat reading, Abel
Newt had thrown a shadow upon her book. But not even
the memory of that hour or that youth now threw a shadow

upon her heart or life. The eyes with which she watched the
setting sun were as free from sorrow as they were from guile.

Lawrence Newt was standing near the window in the library,
looking up at the portrait that hung there, and deep into
the soft, dark eyes. He had a trustful, candid air, as if he
were seeking from it a benediction or consolation. As the
long sunset light swept across the room, and touched tenderly
the tender girl's face of the portrait, it seemed to him to smile
tranquilly and trustingly, as if it understood and answered his
confidence, and a deep peace fell upon his heart.

And high above, from her window that looked westward—
with a clearer, softer gaze, as if Time had cleared and softened
the doubts and obscurities of life—Mrs. Simcoe's face was
turned to the setting sun.

Behind the distant dark-blue hills the June sun set—set
upon three hearts, at least, that Time and Life had taught and
tempered—upon three hearts that were brought together then
and there, not altogether understanding each other, but ready
and willing to understand. As it darkened within the library
and the picture was hidden, Lawrence Newt stood at the window
and looked upon the lawn where Hope was sitting. He
heard a murmuring voice above him, and in the clear, silent
air Hope heard it too. It was only a murmur mingling with
the whisper of the pine-trees. But Hope knew what it was,
though she could not hear the words. And yet the words
were heard: