Grey Towers; or, Aunt Hetty's Will ... With illustrations by F. Gilbert

Front matter

Reading the will. — Page 239. Frontispiece . GREY TOWERS; OR, AUNT HETTY'S WILL. EY M. M. POLLARD, W AUTHOR OF "THE MINER'S SON," "UP TO FIFTEEN," ETC. WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY F. GILBERT. LONDON: GRIFFITH AND FARRAN, SUCCESSORS TO NEWBERY AND HARRIS, WEST CORNER OF ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD. MDCCCLXXVII. [All rights reserved.] LONDON : GILBERT AND R1VINGTON, PRINTERS, st. John's square. CONTENTS. CHAP. pac;e I. — The Curate hears some News i II. — In the Study 10 III. — The new Master of Grey Towers . . .17 IV. — The Squire's Daughter 24 V. — Lenny's Logic 31 VI. — Leonard gives his Opinion .... 38 VII. — The Visit to Grey Towers .... 42 VIII. — An Invitation 47 IX. — The Squire's Wife entertains Company . 52 X. — Alice Burges' Confidences .... 60 XI. — A Trying Winter 67 XII. — A Faded Snowdrop 73 XIII. — Clouds still gather 77 XIV.— A Betrothal Gift 83 XV. — My Sister Ann 91 XVI. — Ralph's Return 95 XVII. — "SO NEAR, AND YET SO FAR" . . . .

I03 XVIII.— The Old Home .108 XIX. — Old Friends 112 XX. — Does he know? 118 XXI. — The Squire congratulates Himself . . 125 XXII. — A last Interview 132 XXIII. — Wedding Bells 139 XXIV. — Ralph's Decision Contents. IV CHAP. PAGE XXV. — A slight Misunderstanding . . . .151 XXVI.— Katie 159 XXVII. — A Morning Visitor 171 XXVIII.— Alice and Katie 178 XXIX.— Katie's Resolve 186 XXX. — Morning Dreams 199 XXXI. — On the Common 208 XXXII. — The New Rector 213 XXXIII.— Eastown Bells again 223 XXXIV— Some News 228 XXXV. — Down at Radcliff 235 XXXVI. — Aunt Hetty's last Will 240 XXXVII. — Conclusion AUNT HETTY'S WILL.

Chapter I. The Curate Hears Some News

|E'«£"SjjlHE Rev. Leonard Thwaites sits alone in his study Rfg Ka| one wintry afternoon. It is a dingy, badly fitted g^jafll up apartment as far as mere furniture goes, for there is nothing pretty or costly in the room ; every article in it seems selected for hard use, not orna ment, and more with regard to comfort than mere fashion. Yet there is a degree of coziness in the place — the fire is good, and its flickering rays light up the dark corner where the book-case stands, and bring out the warm tints of the crimson-covered writing-table, before which the curate of Eastown is at the moment seated. Piled up beside him is a huge heap of commentaries — well-worn books, that have evidently done much duty in their day — the pages of which Mr. Thwaites is busily employed in consulting, making rapid notes as he goes on.

He is trying to decide a very knotty point of doctrine which Ned Harris, one of his parishioners, had mistakenly B interpreted at the last Bible meeting. The curate intends making that very subject the foundation of his sermon on the next evening ; when he hopes to explain away all errors, and make the difficult controversy clear as noonday to all his hearers — the obstinate Ned Harris included. But long ere he concludes the subject to his satisfaction, the door of his study is softly opened, and his wife comes in, looking more flushed and excited than usual. " Leonard, Lawyer Wilson's wife has just called here." " Well, my love, I hope she was well," returns the curate, resignedly; and he dips his pen in the ink, preparing to continue the notes in his brown-covered manuscript book. He has not much sympathy with callers, for he has a kind of idea they take up more time than is necessary.

" Will you listen for one minute, Leonard ? She has brought news you ought to hear," says Gertrude quickly. " Won't the tidings keep a little longer, for I'm very busy just now ? " Mr. Thwaites holds his pen suspended over the paper as he glances up smilingly at his wife. " No, no, you must hear them now, for I can't keep them to myself one minute longer. Aunt Hetty's will has been read, and, only think ! she has made that Tom Burges her sole heir; Grey Towers, and every inch of the property, belongs to him now." Leonard wipes his pen carefully, lays it on the inkstand in a meditative way, and pushes up his spectacles on his forehead, ere he replies slowly, — "One might have expected that would be the case, Gerty ; and yet the news brings somewhat of a surprise with it. I hope you are not disappointed ?

You have not been building up any airy castles about Aunt Hetty's will, have you ? " " Disappointed ! well, I suppose it would be proper to answer, ' No.' You and your aunt have not been on terms for years, and therefore we could not reasonably have expected a legacy." Mrs. Thwaites speaks out quickly, as though, if she reflected on her words, she could not utter them quite so bravely. At the moment she thinks she is saying the truth, yet there is a tremble in her voice, and a quiver on her lip, that will come despite all her bravery. Leonard does not notice her emotion, but he hears her words, and answers them as if somewhat relieved. " Oh ! I am glad you were prepared for this, and can see things in the true light, Gerty. You know poor Aunt Hetty was one who never forgave an offence, and doubtless she considered mine a very unpardonable one."

" What was it, Leonard ? You have never told me, often as I have wondered what you could possibly have done to enrage your aunt so terribly." A quiet smile passes over the face of the curate as he replies, — " Never you mind, little wife ; don't seek to pry into the ' bluebeard's closet,' for I can't indulge your curiosity on that head. Suffice it to say my offence was one of which I have never repented ; and, moreover, it was one I should commit again if placed in the same circumstances. Did the lawyer's wife tell you whether Ralph Burges had any money left him ? " " Not a penny. He was never once named in the will. Tom Burges is the sole heir, executor, and everything else." " Poor Ralph ! Aunt Hetty took very little notice of him after he left Grey Towers." " Why did he go away ? Or is that a secret also ?

" " It was no secret, Gerty. He openly confessed he was tired of the monotonous life in the old place, and panted to go forth and see the world, and gain some of its expe rience for himself. Dear me, it seems but a short time ago since we were all three staying at Grey Towers together — Tom Burges, Ralph, and myself." " Ralph lived there altogether, didn't he ? " " Yes, Aunt Hetty adopted him, and every one looked on B him as heir to the chief part of her property. Tom and I always spent our holidays at Grey Towers, and merry times we had. How well I recollect them still ! " "You and Ralph were Mrs. Burges's nearest relatives, were you not ? " " Ralph was nephew to her late husband, 1 was her own nephew, while Tom was merely a distant connexion ; yet you see he has proved to be the favoured one after all."

Here Mrs. Thwaites' smothered indignation gives signs of bursting forth, and she exclaims impatiently, — " I declare it's altogether too bad. I call the will a dreadfully unjust one, and I haven't patience when I think about it." " Now don't get angry, Gertrude. Aunt Hetty had full control over her property ; she might have turned Grey Towers into a lunatic asylum, and have left her money to endow it, had she liked." " Then I call it a shame such stupid old women should have so much power in their own hands," exclaims Ger trude. The curate draws down the spectacles over his eyes again, dips his pen in the ink, turns over his papers, thus giving unmistakeable signs that he wants to be at work again ; his wife takes the hint, and departs without further ebullition of feeling, closing the door softly after her as she goes.

Then she walks with ruffled brow and slow steps towards the nursery at the top of the house. A bare, grim, shabby little room that same nursery is, well trodden by tiny feet, and used and marred by tiny fingers. It looks particularly dingy in the raw, cheerless, November afternoon, with the grey twilight fast creeping in at the uncurtained window. Sarah, the one servant of the curate's meagre household, is holding the baby on her lap, while another little creature, a year or two older, is sitting on a low stool at the fire. Harry and Lenny, the two bigger children, are at the window making a miniature Punch and Judy show. The whole floor round them is strewed with scraps and shreds, chips and tatters, of all hues and sizes — a perfect litter, in fact, such as boys are found to delight in. Loud screams of welcome from the two youngest greet the mother as she comes in, and Gertrude takes the baby into her arms at once.

" Now, Sarah, you may run away and finish your work. Have you much more to do ? " " Only to clean up the kitchen, ma'am ; polish the tins, scour down the steps, broom out the yard, brush the shoes, and get the tea ready." "Make haste, then, and try to get it all finished. Tell me when the kettle is boiling," says her mistress, as she seats herself among the children. Off runs Sarah, glad enough to get rid of her extra nursing on this busy Saturday afternoon. She goes quickly downstairs to begin, ay, and to finish the multitudinous list of tasks that Mrs. Wilson's two servants would call a "heavy day's work." Baby Maud — a frail, sickly, exacting child — would fain monopolize all her mother's attention did not curly-haired, sunny-faced, blue-eyed Lotty put in her claim to an equal share, and insist, with childish jealousy, on a due amount of notice also.

Poor Mrs. Thwaites feels the worries of the children rather a wholesome discipline to her just now. For, disguise the fact as she may, hide it as much as she can, this news about Aunt Hetty's will has greatly disturbed her. Of late years her life has come to be one of such hard struggle, and trying, up-hill work. What can be more wearisome than the constant striving, the endless planning she has to make that sadly insufficient stipend of Leonard's supply the wants of her numerous household? ; Or, The income is miserably small ; every day's experience proves that ; and she brought her husband no fortune to augment the family funds. Her children are many, their wants legion — wants that ever seem increasing, ever widening. As Gertrude sits in the nursery in the dim twilight, soothing baby's fretfulness, stroking Lotty's soft curls, and striving to keep the big boy's racket within bounds, something very like a wave of discontent sweeps over her, and she feels a dull, heavy weight lying like lead at her heart.

The curate's wife is no faultless heroine of romance, no brave, lofty stoic who boasts of bearing all the disappoint ments and trials of life with supreme indifference, nor has she yet learned to submit to the hardness of her lot without complaint. She is only a helpful, loving wife, who sighs over her poverty, because Leonard has to bear it also ; she is only a tender-hearted, anxious mother, devotedly fond of her children, whom she yearns to surround with all the necessaries and comforts they require. At times she may be fretful or even repining ; but beneath it all lies the true germ of Christian lowly-mindedness and Christian trust. Ah ! how earnestly she tries to be more submissive to her Heavenly Father's will. " No good thing will He withhold from them that walk uprightly," would be the firm utterance of her heart had she been called to bear testimony.

Yet strange weakness and inconsistency of human nature ! This will of Aunt Hetty's pains and vexes her more than she would like to confess, even to Leonard. As she rocks the baby to and fro her thoughts run on. " Oh ! what miserable incongruities there are in life. My own precious, unselfish, high-minded husband has been passed over, and Tom Burges, the avaricious, the designing, the scheming, has been remembered and honoured. A little of the wealth so lavishly heaped on him would have been like sunshine in this house. If Aunt Hetty had only left us a hundred a year, or fifty pounds a year, what a comfort it would have been. Nay, had she only bequeathed us enough money to keep a second servant to help poor Sarah, the drudge, or even given us a few pounds to buy the children warm winter clothes and new shoes, I should have been so thankful.

Leonard won't feel the disappointment as I do. He has none of the miserable, carping, fretful cares that come so heavily into a woman's lot. He has never to sit among the children as I must, listening to their peevishness, correcting their faults, and striving to satisfy their wants. Why a single month of that sort of thing would make him as weary as I am sometimes. " He won't even have time to fret about being disin herited. What with his books and writing, his classes and parochial visiting, his lectures and sermons, his meetings and vestries, he has never a minute to sit down and repine and fret. "Then, I don't believe Leonard really cares about money ; he is the most unworldly man I ever met with. I have no patience with him sometimes ; even now I verily believe his spirit of resignation will shine out all the more brightly from having had this wretched disappointment about Aunt Hetty's will.

Oh, I wish more of Leonard's spirit was mine." Here Gertrude's train of thought is brought to a sudden stop, for a louder clamour than usual bursts forth from the boys that calls for immediate maternal interference. " Lenny, Lenny, stop that noise ! Your shrill voice goes through my ears like a rasp," exclaims she, turning quickly towards the window where the delinquents are still arguing noisily. " Mamma, it's all Harry's fault ; he's spoiling the Punch's show and hurting my puppets. If he'd only have patience I'd soon show him how to pull the strings properly." " You are both tired of the game, so give it up. Harry, clear away that rubbish on the floor, and Lenny come or, here and hold Maud for a few minutes while I go down and see what Sarah is doing ; I'm sure it must be nearly tea time."

But baby Maud has no notion of being disposed of in that summary manner ; she sets up a loud shriek the moment her brother touches her, while Lotty clings to her mamma's skirts like a little burr. "Tiresome children, all of you!" exclaims Mrs. Thwaites, with unwonted impatience, as she sets herself to soothe Maud into quietness again. With the news of the unjust will still ringing in her ears, disturbing the current of her thoughts and vexing her heart ; the nursery worries press on her with increased weight, and she murmurs wearily to herself, — " Even Leonard would lose his patience among these children." Yet nothing can be more tender than her soothing of the fractious little one, or softer than her voice as she coaxes and hushes it to bring its wails to silence. Some words she has lately met with rush into her memory at the moment : she repeats them, half aloud, as though they had been a nursery rhythm, and they bring calmness to the child by the low music of her voice, and quiet to herself by the deep earnestness of their teaching, — *' O earth, so full of dreary noises !

O men, with wailing in your voices ! O delved gold, the wailer's heap ! O strife, O curse that o'er it fall ! God makes a silence through you all, And giveth His beloved sleep." Presently Sarah taps briskly at the door. She has put on a clean white apron, fresh in its folds, and pure as country washing can make it ; her face is polished to its utmost shining power, and she smiles knowingly as she lays a letter on the table. " From Miss Katie, ma'am. Don't I know the dear young lady's handwriting as well as my own? Please, ma'am, all my work's done except just getting the tea ready and making the master's slice of toast." " Then I'll manage that, Sarah, while you stay here with the children. I'll call you all down to tea presently. Maudie's a good, quiet little pet now, and won't cry any more."

" I'll take care she don't cry, ma'am ; she's always satis fied when she's with me — the dear, precious, little duck of diamonds." The nursery term of endearment — whatever it may mean — seems to pacify Maud, who lets her mamma depart now without a murmur.

Chapter II. In The Study

RgsgjjlERTRUDE puts the letter from her eldest daughter rlsOS lnt0 Poc^et: unopened. The reading of Katie's B\5S?<_1 letters is always a pleasant employment, so she reserves its perusal as a special treat for Leonard and herself when they are once more alone together. Then Mrs. Thwaites sets herself about the duties proposed. Under her nimble, well-trained fingers the dining-room table speedily shows forth preparations for the children's meal — mugs of sops for the little ones, milk and water, and thick slices of bread, with a thin coating of butter, for the big boys. Next she lays out a small tray that just holds a dainty tea-set, azure, and white, and gold — one of the few remaining, long-ago marriage presents given her when she became the curate's bride. The tray holds also a plated rack of cold toast, and a pat of butter, enough for her husband's and her own frugal meal.

As she moves nimbly about her occupations, one might observe her face has resumed its usual hopeful look, her clear brown eyes are bright and pleasant as ever. Mrs. Thwaites is a busy, active little woman, with a genial face and trim figure, a well-shaped head, and glossy dark brown hair. She possesses a great deal of that useful gift the Americans call " faculty," for she can put her hands to most &>c. 11 things, and is not ashamed to confess it. From training the church choir at the harmonium to making her children's clothes, or cooking her husband's dinner, nothing seems to come amiss to her; she is equal to any duty in parlour, study, or kitchen. Gertrude's is an industrious, helpful, many-sided experience. Not often is she so depressed as we have seen her on her first appearance on the scene ; but then, as she says herself, " Aunt Hetty's odious will was enough to put any one out of patience."

Mrs. Thwaites fancies her husband has felt no disappointment as she has done ; but here she is mistaken, and proves the truth of the saying that we never really know our dearest friends. There are heights and depths in Leonard's character that she, with all her clear-sightedness, with all her love and reverence for him, has never been able to understand and fathom. The tidings have strangely unsettled the curate. When his wife leaves the study that afternoon, he returns at once to his books of reference. He looks up and down the pages to hunt out the testimony of learned men who have left their ideas on the very question he is endeavouring to decide ; but, somehow, he finds the thread of his research is tangled and confused. His ideas have been disturbed, and he cannot settle them down again, More than once he finds himself leaning on the table with his face buried in his hands.

Glimpses, and scenes, and echoes from the past flash into his memory with a vividness he cannot repress. In imagination he is once more at Grey Towers with Aunt Hetty, Tom Burges, and Ralph. Tom is a very black sheep indeed amongst them in those days ; he is nobody's favourite — least of all, Aunt Hetty's. His grasping, avaricious, mean ways are all well known to both Leonard and his aunt. Tom does many things for money's sake that a more scrupulous man would shrink from with horror. Ever planning, ever trying to accomplish his own ends, he cares little who comes to the ground in the or, 12 battle of life, so that he may tread over the field with flying colours and with step of triumph. His character is one Leonard distrusts and detests even in those far-away days. Ralph, the sunny-hearted, the restless, and thoughtless, is his aunt's prime favourite ; he torments her with his boyish tricks, while he draws her heart closer towards him in indulgent affection.

For in those days Aunt Hetty is fond and loving ; she has not then developed into the crabbed, suspicious, distrustful, exacting woman she becomes in after years. She is even bright, keen, and clever, neither averse to society nor sociability, and always delighted to have " her boys," as she calls them, about the old house. But things have strangely altered now. Ralph is disin herited for no other reason than that he has grown weary of the calm life at Grey Towers, and with youthful impetuosity longs to be out, jostling amidst the crowd of the busy world, seeing and judging, asking and doing for himself. Mrs. Burges angrily bids him " Go," and then her heart seems to close from him from that hour. Ere long she has cast off Leonard Thwaites also, because he has presumed to fall in love without her leave, and when, by-and-by, he marries the portionless, brown-eyed, pretty Gertrude Ashton, the measure of his iniquity is complete.

Gertrude, the daughter of a retired naval officer, brings him no fortune but the loving affection of her fresh, true, trusting heart. Aunt Hetty waxes furious at her nephew's imprudence, and her anger culminates in the breach never afterwards made up. The cause of his aunt's wrath is the only secret Leonard ever keeps from his wife, and this, with a half amused, half-assumed reticence, he rigidly conceals in the depths of his own heart. Tom Burges has often been down to Grey Towers of late. Sometimes he comes there alone, at other times his wife and members of his family are with him. The inquisitive people at Eastown watch him driving about in Aunt Hetty's dark-green carriage, and notice him sitting in her large pew at church. Doubtless these visits of Tom to Grey Towers are his golden opportunities for gaining an influence over the old woman; he makes his metaphorical "hay while the sun shines," and brings things to the very conclusion he wishes.

Well, all is over now. Leonard's numberless attempts at reconciliation with his aunt have all signally failed. She is gone down to her grave silent, resentful, and unforgiving to the last. Her wealth has latterly brought her but little happiness after all ; it has severed her from those who valued her most, and Leonard, who really loved his aunt and cherishes fond memories of her, grieves for her now with a deep grief. As he sits in the study, his pen and papers forgotten — his eyes are covered with his clasped hands still — and his thoughts are far away in the past. Presently a low tap at the door rouses him, and opening it he sees his wife standing outside wfah the little tea-tray in her hands. The shadow is gone from her heart now, and she looks up smilingly as she makes room for the tray amongst the crowd of books on the table.

"Finished your sermon, Leonard?" "Not yet, Gerty; but I'm glad tea is ready — a cup of your best brew will refresh me wonderfully, and perhaps rouse up my ideas a little." " I made the tea extra strong this afternoon, and here's a letter to cheer you. It is from Katie." " Ah, indeed ! Our daughter is growing a famous cor respondent; she will equal her mother in that respect some day. Do you recollect, Gerty, what yards and yards of penmanship you used to send me when I was at college ?" " Yes, to be sure I do; and I remember, too, what rubbish ; or, 14 I used to write — just whatever was uppermost in my thoughts. How foolish people are when they are young," retorts wise Gertrude, as she glances' up archly at her husband. The letter is soon read, and then it is discovered that Katie's godmother has invited her down to Yorkshire to spend her Christmas holidays.

" Now, I call that very kind of Miss Hay. She is always so thoughtful for Katie. Do you know, Leonard, I some times think she means to provide altogether for her? Paying her schooling, and giving her such nice presents of clothes, and inviting her so often to her house, looks like it. Doesn't it?" Leonard shakes his head chidingly. " There you are again, little wife, piling up another airy castle. Don't' give way to such a habit, my dear ; it only makes the reality harder to bear. Let Aunt Hetty's will be a warning in that respect, and leave the future to be unveiled by Him who alone holds its deep secrets." Leonard speaks gravely, but Mrs. Thwaites is not inclined to give up the point quite so easily. She does not reply, nor does she feel convinced her idea is a mere fancy. She gives the coals a quick jerk with the poker, and the flame flashes out, showing her face still a little flushed.

Though she has been disappointed now, that is no reason why Miss Hay should give her disappointment also ; she holds her pet expectation too firmly to let it topple to the ground all at once. She mentally comes to this decision, as kneeling on the hearth-rug she vigorously rakes the embers together, and tries to coax them into a steady brightness. Leonard has a trick of letting his fire droop, and sometimes go out altogether, while he is hard at work over his books. As if by tacit consent, neither husband nor wife again bring up the subject that has been distracting their minds so much. They talk of their eldest daughter, who has so pleasantly won the favour of the rich Miss Hay, her god mother, and they discuss the plans and wants for her coming visit to Yorkshire. They chat on with low, cheery voices of their other children also; bright little sayings and doings of whom Gertrude is apt to repeat for her husband's gratification, and which he is ever ready to smile at and enjoy.

Thus they pass the quiet tea-hour on that Saturday evening. It is a calm, happy time, snatched from the worry of domestic toil, and from the thraldom of brain work and books. Both husband and wife feel all the better for it, and return to their labours again refreshed and strengthened. When Gertrude has retired from the study once more, bearing the tray in her hands, Leonard pauses for a moment's silent reflection, then he resolutely piles up all his old commentaries together, and puts them in their places, high up on his book-shelves. He just as resolutely banishes Ned Harris's crabbed and involved point of doctrine out of his mind altogether, with the conclusion it is better to talk over the matter in a private discussion with that worthy, but very argumentative man. "He gets his ideas so twisted and warped that it will take me a long time to bring him to take a sound, healthful view of the doctrine," muses Leonard ; and then he selects quite another subject for his sermon for the next evening.

Drawing forth a worn little Bible, that has long been his companion in college and parish — a book well marked with references, and familiar to him in every page — he turns over a leaf or two, and fixes on a text. Only a few words, but they enfold, like a priceless treasure, a sweet loving message from the Saviour to the weary and heavy-laden sinner ; only a line, but it breathes forth the full, free tidings of salvation. Rapidly flow on Leonard's thoughts now; his pen can &C. 16 hardly keep pace with them as his soul warms to the subject, and his heart throbs and glows as sentence after sentence of fervid, impassioned eloquence runs on in quick succession. Warm thoughts, vivid ideas, breathe forth from the paper, clothed withal in the simple Saxon that the English wayfaring man need never stumble at.

A sure panacea this to his late train of uneasy reflection ; it all seems to disperse and melt away as he writes on. Unworldly and sterling man as the curate undoubtedly is, yet his mind is more than a little exercised ere he can try to exonerate Aunt Hetty from the charge of blind partiality, and injustice, in the will she has left behind her. Perhaps he cannot altogether withdraw his blame after all ; but he can endeavour to conquer the disturbance it has raised in his heart, so he brings this case, as he does all others, to Him who is the best judge of what is good for His people. Ere long quiet contentment comes back to his mind, and he ceases even to wonder why all has happened as it has done. Yet Aunt Hetty might have sprinkled many more pleasures over the curate's home had she so chosen.