The Hallam Succession. Amelia E. Barr
capital equal to yours. What did my lord say concerning our plan?”
“He said we must have some instruction, and that he would speak to Sir Thomas Harrington. My father secured his seat in Parliament, and he is sure to allow us to enter his house. We shall have every facility there for acquiring a rapid practical knowledge of banking and finance. I told father it was that or the colonies. I have no idea of being only Lord Francis’s brother.’ ”
“Money is the axle on which the world turns, George. When you and I have it we can buy titles—if we want them.”
The fever of fortune-making had seized both young men. They were ambitious in the most personal sense of the word. George’s position as younger son constantly mortified him. He had had dreams of obtaining honor both as a scholar and a soldier, but he had satisfied himself that for one career he had not the mental ability, and for the other neither the physical courage nor endurance necessary. Of mere rank he was not envious. He had lived among noble men, and familiarity had bred its usual consequence. But he did want money. He fully recognized that gold entered every earthly gate, and he felt within himself the capacity for its acquirement. He had also precedents for this determination which seemed to justify it. The Duke of Norham’s younger son had a share in an immense brewery and wielded a power far beyond that of his elder brother, who was simply waiting for a dukedom. Lord Egremont, a younger son of the Earl of Soho, controlled large amounts of railway stock, and it was said held a mortgage on the family castle. To prove to his father and mother that no law of primogeniture could disinherit him, appeared to George Eltham an object worth striving for.
With these thoughts simmering in his heart he met Antony Hallam at Oxford. They speedily became friends. Antony wanted money also. But in him the craving arose from a more domineering ambition. He wished to rule men, to be first every-where. He despised the simple provincial title to which he was born, and the hall, with all its sweet gray antiquity, was only a dull prison. He compared its mediaeval strength, its long narrow lattices, its low rambling rooms, its Saxon simplicity, with the grand mansions of modern date in which he visited. It must be remembered that it is only recently old houses and old furniture and early English have become fashionable. Antony’s dream of a home was not of Hallam, but of a grander Eltham castle, whose rooms should be twice as large and lofty and splendid.
He would control men through their idol, gold; he would buy some old earldom, and have orders and honors thrust upon him. His long, honorable descent would be a good foundation to build upon. He told himself that the Hallams ought to have built upon it generations ago. He almost despised his ancestors for the simple lives they had led. He could not endure to think of himself sitting down as squire Hallam and ruling a few cottagers and tilling a few hundred acres. In George Eltham he found a kindred spirit. They might work for different motives, but gold was the aim of both.
Many plans had been entertained and discussed, but they had finally settled upon a co-partnership in finance. They would discount bills, make advances, and secure government contracts. The latter was the special aim of Antony’s desires. But they were not foolish enough to think they could succeed without some preliminary initiation, and this they proposed to acquire in the great banking house of Sir Thomas Harrington. M.P. Lord Eltham had approved the plan. It now remained to secure the squire’s agreement and co-operation. As for the money necessary, George Eltham proposed to acquire it by marriage. Antony had his own plan; he was only waiting until the Fontaines’ visit was over, and “that contemptible Craven affair settled.”
For he saw plainly that for the time the squire’s mind was full of outside interests, and when Antony discussed a subject so vital to himself, he was resolved his father should be in a position to feel its importance, and give it his undivided attention. Personally he had no ill-feeling toward Ben Craven, but he was annoyed at the intrusion of so vulgar an object of sympathy into his home. The squire’s advocacy at Eltham had irritated him. He was quietly angry at Elizabeth and Phyllis daily visiting the dame. And when the Methodist preacher had been twice to Hallam to see the squire on the subject, he could not treat the affair with his usual tolerant indifference.
“I have changed my mind,” he said, one evening, with that smiling positiveness which is so aggravating: “I am very much inclined to believe that Ben Craven did kill Clough.”
The squire looked at him, first with amazement, then with anger, and asked, “When did ta lose thy good sense, and thy good-will, son Antony?”
“I had a talk with Swale to-day, and in his judgment—”
“Thou knows what I think o’ Swale. Was there ever a bigger old cheat than he is? I’ll put my heart afore Swale’s judgment, Ben Craven’s all right.”
“He will have strong evidence and a clever lawyer against him. He is sure to be convicted.”
“Don’t thee reckon to know so much. Ben’s got a clever lawyer, too; but if he’d nobbut God and his mother to plead for him, his cause ‘ud be in varry good hands, thou may be sure o’ that.”
“I am only saying, father, what Swale says every-where.”
“I’ll warrant he’ll talk. There’s no tax on lying. My word, if there was, Swale’d hev to keep his mouth shut.”
“I cannot imagine, father, what makes you trouble yourself so much about the Cravens.”
“Thou can’t, can’t ta? Then thou canst imagine gratitude for faithful service given cheerfully for three hundred years. Why-a lad, ’twas a Craven saved Alfred Hallam’s life at Worcester fight.”
“I suppose he paid him for the service. Any how the debt is not ours.”
“Ay, is it. It’s my debt, and it’s thine, too. Ben may live to do thee a service for aught thou knows.”
Antony smiled contemptuously, and the squire continued, almost angrily, “There’s things more unlikely; look here, my lad, nivver spit in any well: thou may hev to drink of t’ water.”
When the words were said the squire was sorry for them. They had come from his lips in that forceful prophetic way some speeches take, and they made an unpleasant impression on both father and son; just such an impression as a bad dream leaves, which yet seems to be wholly irrelevant and unaccountable.
Craven was in Leeds jail, and the trial was fixed for the summer term. All things may be better borne than suspense, and all were glad when Ben could have a fair hearing. But every thing was against him, and at the end of the second day’s trial, the squire came home in sincere trouble; Ben had been found guilty, but a conviction of his innocence, in spite of the evidence, seemed also to have possessed the jury, for they had strongly recommended him to her majesty’s mercy.
Elizabeth and Phyllis went with sick, sorrowful heart to see the dame. The strain had told upon her before the trial, and she had lost her cheerfulness somewhat. But she had come to a place now where anger and sense of wrong and impatience were past.
“Lost confidence, sister Phyllis,” she said; “not I; I hev only stopped reckoning on any man or woman now, be ‘t queen’s sen; and I hev put my whole trust i’ God. Such like goings on as we’ve hed! Paper and ink and varry little justice; but God’ll sort ivery thing afore long.”
“The case is to come before the queen.”
“That’s well enough. Miss Hallam, but I’ll tak’ it mysen into God’s council-chamber—there’s no key on that door, and there’s no fee to pay either. He’ll put ivery thing right, see if he doesn’t!”
“And besides, Sister Martha, things may not be as far wrong as we think they are—may not be wrong at all. God moves in a mysterious way.”
“And he needs to, Sister Phyllis. There’s many a soul ‘ud run away from him, even when he was coming to help ’em, if they knew it was him.” “I understand what you mean, Martha—‘as a thief in the night.’ He breaks all bars and bursts all doors closed against him when he visits either a soul or a cause. I heard you were at Leeds. Do you mind telling us how things went? The squire will